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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29297499">venus in chains</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainedgoddess/pseuds/chainedgoddess'>chainedgoddess</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Victorian, BDSM, Bondage, Cheating, Doctor Bellamy Blake, Doctor Kink, Doctor/Patient, Dom Bellamy Blake, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Increasingly kinky, Medical Kink, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Praise Kink, Restraints, Shameless Smut, Sub Clarke Griffin, Under-negotiated Kink, like starts with tiny kink and then GROWS</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:55:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>25,097</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29297499</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainedgoddess/pseuds/chainedgoddess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Victorian gentleman Finn Collins sends his wife to Dr. Blake to treat her melancholic nature with the latest in <i>vibrating</i> technology.</p><p>Clarke learns along the way that sex and romance can be far more thrilling than what she's been led to believe. Each visit to his office is a new and wonderful experience of utter depravity.</p><p>•\•</p><p>Doctor!Bellamy &amp; Patient!Clarke<br/>Dom!Bellamy &amp; Sub!Clarke<br/>BDSM / Medfet<br/>Under-negotiated kink</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>477</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The sexual act here is pretty under-negotiated, even though it's technically Bellamy's job. Don't read this if that's a potential trigger.</p><p>This is shameless porn. The storyline just facilitates the sex.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clarke doesn’t think much of it when her husband makes her the doctor’s appointment.</p><p>“You’ve just seemed a bit… under the weather,” he says carefully over their dinner one evening. “And I know it’s probably just all the stress of the wedding finally being over and the change to being Mrs. Finn Collins, but it seems like a good opportunity to make sure everything’s alright.”</p><p>It’s been eight months since the wedding, and though there are certainly things she hasn’t enjoyed about the realities of being <em> Mrs. Finn Collins, </em> it’s mostly been… fine. Alright. It’s not really difficult to be a wife — to cook dinners in time for her husband to be home and to attend church with him on Sundays. </p><p>She doesn’t think to ask what kind of doctor he’s made an appointment with, but it’s only because she’s been seeing the same older gentleman — so old he must be retiring soon honestly, even if Clarke isn’t pleased to think about finding someone else in the city — since she was a child.</p><p>So after he tells her about this scheduling change for their upcoming Saturday afternoon, she clears the table and washes the dishes and cutlery. It hardly matters. She’ll remember again Saturday morning.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>On Saturday, she learns he didn’t mean a <em> normal </em>doctor’s appointment.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>“Okay Mrs. Collins, if you’d just take a seat.”</p><p>The doctor she’s seeing — young and handsome and far more noteworthy than her normal one — gestures to the chair in his office. It’s metal with a thin padded covering over the frame, and the back reclines enough that she wonders if she should sit up to speak with him or awkwardly attempt to recline.</p><p>Feeling uncomfortable, she opts to perch at the edge.</p><p>“You can, um… Call me Clarke, please. If you don’t mind, Dr…?”</p><p>He looks up from the papers he’s rifling through on his wooden desk. “Dr. Blake. Alright, Clarke. Your husband was in last week to book the appointment?”</p><p>He squints down at the information on her file, presumably having seen the scheduling done by the secretary seated out in the main hall of the small building.</p><p>“I suppose. You’re not my normal doctor obviously. I’m not really sure what prompted the switch.”</p><p>“He’s apparently said that you’ve been exhibiting signs of melancholia? And moments of hysteria?”</p><p>She frowns in confusion, and when he looks up at her again, his face falls into a mirror of hers.</p><p>“Sorry, what?”</p><p>“You didn’t know?” He asks.</p><p>“That I’m apparently crazy? How was I supposed to know that?”</p><p>“No,” he says softly. “That your husband thinks you’re melancholic. Not crazy.”</p><p>She shakes her head. “I don’t think I am.”</p><p>“He didn’t… bring this topic up with you before making the appointment?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“That’s…” He trails off for a moment, letting out a little hum. “If it makes you feel any better, you aren’t the first woman I’ve had in here who didn’t receive that courtesy from her husband.”</p><p>She wants to complain, wants to bark out something rude like <em> well maybe husbands should have an ounce of compassion for their wives and actually think of them as humans rather than pets who need to be dealt with, </em> but she doesn’t. It’s not the doctor’s fault that marriage isn’t all Clarke had been led to think it might be.</p><p>Instead, she says nothing.</p><p>“You were recently married?”</p><p>“Less than a year ago, yes. But not so very recently.”</p><p>He stands from his chair, moving closer to where she’s seated. Under his white jacket, he wears a lovely waistcoat of black silk.</p><p>“And how has that been?”</p><p>“If my husband thinks I’m—“ <em> crazy </em>“—melancholic, are you here to… do head shrinking? Or whatever it is that those doctors do?”</p><p>He smiles, a hint of amusement in it. She’ll take that over pity. It makes her think she hasn’t got one foot already in Bedlam.</p><p>“No, I’m not that kind of doctor. But it would help me to know the basics of how married life is treating you.”</p><p>“It’s—“ <em> boring. a let down. an utter disappointment, with a disappointing husband to match. </em> “—fine. I don’t really know what I’d expected.”</p><p>“You’re twenty-two?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“And you’re… content? In the marriage?”</p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p>Is anyone actually content in their marriage? She wonders sometimes if everyone around her is just faking it better than she can, or if they’re actually just happier than she is. If they’ve figured out how to get along. If their partners were the right choice for them, or if that’s even possible.</p><p>“I’m not discontented.” Lie.</p><p>She can’t go around disparaging her husband. It could get around somehow, even if only said in the privacy of this room. Dr. Blake might off-handedly say something to someone — to Finn himself perhaps, if he came in to ask after her health once they’d finished. Or it might get written down in his notes and overseen by another member of staff, or…</p><p>Regardless, it won’t do anyone any good to be honest.</p><p>He doesn’t say anything, but his face tightens slightly at the words.</p><p>“Alright, well… Your husband was looking to attempt a specific treatment plan, hoping it would help with the medical issues he’s supposedly seeing. Whether you’re actually melancholic or not, this won’t have any adverse effects.”</p><p>“What is the treatment?”</p><p>She pictures all kinds of nasty things he might have to do to rid her of a problem she doesn’t think exists. Or maybe, if she’s lucky, it’ll just be a prescription of opioids or some such medication from the chemist.</p><p>“It’s, ah… paroxysms.”</p><p>“Paroxysms? I’ve never heard of that before.”</p><p>She says the words innocently, honestly curious about what he’s trying to tell her, but she can see the way his face lights up, the way he’s holding in a sudden urge to laugh.</p><p>Her face instantly drops, withdrawing slightly within herself. She didn’t come here to be laughed at by some strange doctor who she doesn’t even require in the first place.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, schooling his face. “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of them.” There’s still a hint of mischief in the words. Clearly whatever he knows that she doesn’t must be quite amusing to him.</p><p>“So what are you going to do?”</p><p>“With your permission, I’ll do a genital exam.”</p><p>“Why? What does that have to do with anything?”</p><p>She’d only been looked at there once by her doctor, and only in the lead up to the wedding. She wasn’t even sure what he’d been looking for — she didn’t think the answer actually had anything to do with her virginity.</p><p>These days, her husband has seen everything there is to see of her naked body, though she doesn’t get much enjoyment out of the process. It’s just another thing that some women must be lying about when they say they like it. All the matrons in her church were right — it’s a duty, something to endure.</p><p>And she endures it.</p><p>“It’s… Well, paroxysms — which are a kind of spasm, I suppose — have been shown to reduce the symptoms that Mr. Collins claims you’re having. It’s not painful. Most women would probably say it’s at worst a little intense. Others might go as far to say the treatment is even pleasant.”</p><p>“Pleasant?”</p><p>The word comes out dripping in skepticism.</p><p>“Yes,” he says, the smile again on his face, like he knows that his job is a little silly — a little ridiculous to others. “But like I said, you’re the patient. You don’t have to do anything today that you don’t authorize, even if your husband wants you to.”</p><p>He shows her the tool that would be used in this <em> treatment, </em> but she finds it impossible to picture exactly how it’s meant to work. The thing itself looks like it would be more at home in a carpenter’s toolbox than anywhere near her skirts, but she doesn’t mention that to the doctor.</p><p>She looks it over, even taking the time to hold the heavy object in her hands when he offers it, as though it might answer all the questions in her head. It doesn’t.</p><p>She thinks of her husband, likely gone to some of the nearby shops or for a walk around the town while he waits for her to be finished. She doesn’t love him, doesn’t necessarily feel honor-bound to please him more than is required of her by law.</p><p>But if she does it, whether or not it works, he’ll probably be satisfied enough. It might get him to leave her alone for some time.</p><p>“Will it take long?”</p><p>“That depends. Sometimes it’s… very quick. No more than a few minutes. Sometimes it’s considerably longer. But I find that the tenser a woman is when she comes in, the quicker it goes.”</p><p>“And what is your best guess for me?” She asks, staring up at him with wide eyes.</p><p>“I think…” He pauses, looking her over. “I think you could probably finish quickly.”</p><p>So she sits back in the chair.</p><p>He comes to her side, moving to strap her arms down to the rails of the bed.</p><p>“What are you doing that for?” The alarm in her voice isn’t subtle, even as she allows him to immobilize her right arm entirely.</p><p>“Some patients will jerk around a little during the procedure. It’s easier to limit motion, if that’s alright with you.”</p><p>“You’re a real doctor, right?”</p><p>It’s a joke, but it isn’t.</p><p>He laughs, pointing to the fancy medical degrees on the wood paneling of the walls. Then he moves to strap down her other arm.</p><p>She can’t help but tug on them, a test to see if she could get out if need be. There is almost no give at all — just enough to keep her skin from getting pinched in the attempt.</p><p>Once she’s definitely not leaving the chair without a fight, he rolls his stool over, moving to sit by her feet as he straps those down as well.</p><p>“You’re still feeling okay, right Clarke?”</p><p>She lets out a little hum, too nervous to give a real answer.</p><p>“Okay, I’m going to lift your skirts now, and then the stirrups of the bed will slide out to either side so I can see. If you need to stop at any time just let me know.”</p><p>His hands move to do as he’s said, pushing her heavy skirt up to bunch at her hips as he parts her legs. The bed — the <em> stirrups </em> — click into place, so even if she wants to slam her legs closed again in shame and embarrassment, she can’t. Like her hands, they will stay where he’s put them.</p><p>His fingers quickly find the slits in all her under layers, pulling them apart as much as he can until she feels his bare skin touching hers.</p><p>“Cold,” she gasps.</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>He feels around for a moment, narrating as he goes. This part, he explains, is part of a typical exam routine rather than anything to do with the treatment. She wonders what he’s looking for, but whatever it is, he must not find anything abnormal, because his hands pull away after a moment. She lets out a relieved puff of air.</p><p>“You’re being a model patient, Clarke. Now on to the most important part.”</p><p>He pulls out the tool again from earlier, and a series of small switches brings it to life, purring loudly in the silence of the room.</p><p>“Okay, to start off, I just want you to feel this somewhere neutral, so you know what to expect.” He brings the machine’s tip to her inner thigh, midway between her knee and her core. The buzzing — fast and unnatural and strange — pulses against her.</p><p>Still, despite being odd, it isn’t really anything exciting.</p><p>“And how is this supposed to be intense again?”</p><p>“It won’t be intense here. You’ll see in a moment what I mean.”</p><p>Then he moves, bringing one hand to her center to spread her open in a way that makes her blush brightly. And the other—</p><p>The other brings that <em> thing </em>to her sensitive skin, letting it buzz there as her back bows off the cushion behind her.</p><p>There’s something instantaneously horrible about that feeling — too much too soon. Sensations she’s never even imagined all blurring the edges of her vision.</p><p>Dr. Blake moves the machine around a bit, searching for the exact right—</p><p>She lets out a keening sound, high pitched and embarrassing, and he seems to decide that that’s where the device works best.</p><p>Her fingers curl against the armrests they’re strapped to, desperately clawing against them as if she might tear her arms away. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if she manages it. Push the device away from her sensitive skin? Pull it closer? Move her hips against it until the feeling overwhelms her?</p><p>Something in the back of her mind luxuriates in the ties binding her down. She doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to decide what she would do if she were in charge. She isn’t in charge. Dr. Blake knows just how to help her.</p><p>“Christ,” she whimpers, eyes shut tight. She throws her head back against the feeling, worried that she’s giving away too much. That she’s somehow being inappropriate — being a <em> whore </em> — in her doctor’s office. </p><p>The other women must not feel this way. Must not feel so destroyed by what he’s doing to her. There’s something wrong with her, something wicked and dirty.</p><p>“You’re doing great, Clarke,” comes his quiet voice. His other hand brushes against her inner thigh as he moves it, and her whole body tenses, sweat breaking out on her forehead. </p><p>She wants to know what that machine would feel like everywhere. Her nipples tighten into buds beneath her chemise and corset, and she wonders what it would feel like if she could touch them right now. It’s never felt good before, but maybe like this.</p><p>He moves the device in small circles, letting the vibrations hit from different angles against that sensitive spot that no one has ever touched before. Another gasp crosses her lips, but she tries to stifle it, hands in tight fists against the leather.</p><p>“Please. <em> Please.” </em></p><p>She doesn’t know what she’s begging for.</p><p>“You’re almost there, Clarke. You’ve been such a good girl for me.”</p><p>The words are innocently said, but something about them — about the hint of condescension or the praise she craves — makes her lightheaded.</p><p>She opens her eyes to watch him, but seeing his hair between her legs, his face inches from her core, staring at the most sacred spot in her body, she can’t help but come utterly undone.</p><p>“Oh my god.”</p><p>Her body bows up again, held down only by his straps and the arm he placed across her hips.</p><p>The device buzzes against her throughout the whole earth shattering process, and he doesn’t turn it off until she’s nearly crying from overstimulation.</p><p>“That’s good,” he says, sounding strangely wrecked himself. She wonders how many women he does this to each day. “That was great.”</p><p>He pulls back, righting her skirts before he begins to undo the leather straps. A sick part of her wants to beg him to leave them, feeling so out of her own body that she imagines it wouldn’t be difficult to float away.</p><p>Once she’s properly dressed again, he steps away, and she tries desperately to catch her breath.</p><p>“That was… supposed to put me in a better mood?”</p><p>“Yes. You’ll have to let me know if it worked.”</p><p>She stands up, red faced and unable to look him in the eye. Not when she’d wanted more; not when she’d wanted to drag him closer.</p><p>“I think it will. Thank you, doctor.”</p><p>She exits hastily, knowing that Finn already paid in advance.</p><p>As she runs out the door, coat only half on, she hears a faint, “don’t be afraid to come again!”</p><p>Everyone she sees on the whole run home must think she’s either gone mad or guilty of something terrible.</p><p>Maybe she is.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>That night, Finn smiles warmly when he sees her, as though he assumes that whatever he’d found disagreeable in her must have cleared itself right up at the doctor’s. </p><p>She hardly speaks to him.</p><p>But when he rolls over onto her body that night, shoving his cock into her with no finesse, she doesn’t feel any of the things that she knows her body is capable of now. None of the things that Dr. Blake can call forth in her.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>That night, she dreams of his hands. His voice. The restrictions on her arms and legs, holding her open for him, vulnerable and needy.</p><p>“Please,” she whispers, the word threaded with desire. “Please, please touch me.”</p><p>His fingers pet along her folds, collecting the wetness there before they sink into her. Slowly, slowly… First one finger, then a second, pumping in and out of her at his leisure. She tries to shift her hips, but they’re buckled down too, a thick piece of leather holding her exactly where he wants her.</p><p>“You’re being such a good girl today.”</p><p>“I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you,” she begs, hardly even knowing exactly what it is she needs. More. More of anything. Just more.</p><p>“Next time I’ll fuck you like the good little slut you are, hm?” She moans at the word which should make her feel so small, so pathetic. Instead it makes a chill run down her spine as warmth pools within her. She clenches around his fingers. “You like that, don’t you sweetheart? But for now, you’ll just have to settle for my tongue.”</p><p>She watches as his head disappears between her thighs, and just for a moment, she wishes that she could wrap her hands in his dark curls, forcing him closer until he makes her see stars. She could suffocate him against her skin until he brings her the pleasure she’s been lacking.</p><p>But her hands stay exactly where they are, and, almost repulsively, she likes that better. Likes having no control here.</p><p>She wakes up sweaty, needy, and unfulfilled.</p><p>The sight of Finn next to her makes her want to cry out at the unfairness of it all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I set the chapter number at 10 even though frankly this story will go on until I run out of smutty situations to write. That might be less than 10 or more than 10, but I like having a round number goal for now.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next morning, as Pastor Cadogan leads them through the sermon, Clarke can feel the eyes of the congregation on her, judging her for these sick, immoral thoughts.</p><p>The church is sparsely decorated, and there is little on the walls to use as a distraction. Finn holds her hand in his, but she can feel the way a cold sweat has coated her palm.</p><p>Under the thick layers of her clothing, her body is still just as electrified as it had been the day prior, as though Dr. Blake struck her with a bolt of lightning instead of his little device. Her nipples scrape uncomfortably against the fabrics any time she shifts around, half in agony at the feeling and half in need.</p><p>In need of more. More touches. More pleasure.</p><p>Her mind drifts away, picturing what it would feel like to have Dr. Blake tracing her exposed décolletage, a stray finger running down the cleave between her breasts. He would undo her corset so slowly, so painstakingly. And then he would circle his finger around one nipple, pebbled beneath her chemise with only that scrap of fabric separating him from her skin. The pink of the bud, flushed and needy, would show through the sheer fabric — a pisspoor attempt at staying modest when he can see everything that the chemise attempts to cover.</p><p>His phantom touch and the heat it brings causes her bosom to heave in her dress as she takes in a gulp of air.</p><p>Too loud. Too noticeable.</p><p>Pastor Cadogan shifts his gaze to her for a moment, probably seeing in real time as her soul descends to hell.</p><p>She wants to pay attention. She wants to be better — to be freed of these perversions that have taken control of her sanity.</p><p>She can almost feel his hand — <em> his </em>hand — in her hair, tugging it back until her chin is raised, forcing her to watch the pastor.</p><p><em> “Pay attention,” </em> he’d whisper, the words making her eyes flutter closed. He’d pull again, harder this time. So hard she nearly cries out from the shock against her scalp. <em> “Pay attention like a good girl should. My pure, devout, godly little whore.” </em></p><p>The words — just the imaginings of these words, a continuation from her dream — make the hairs on her body stand up. </p><p>She needs that hand in her hair. Needs to be told to listen, to be told to behave as a good girl should.</p><p>When she looks over at Finn, he just gives her a small smile, squeezing her sweaty hand softly. It’s not enough.</p><p>It’s not <em> enough. </em> She needs to be held down, restrained until she has no control.</p><p>She won’t find that here. Not in a house of god, and certainly not with Finn Collins, a man who would sooner decide she’s crazy than try to pleasure her.</p><p>Jesus, from his place carved onto the lone wooden cross on the wall, looks down on her in disapproval.</p><p>She wonders which circle of hell belongs to the harlots.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>For the next week, every morning when Finn goes off to the office for work, she throws the breakfast dishes into the little sink in their kitchen and hurries back to their bedroom, careful to make sure that he had locked the front door behind him. If he comes home for any reason — forgotten lunch or just to say hello in the middle of the day — she will need a minute’s warning.</p><p>In the bed, freshly made just a half hour before, she lays herself down, pulling her skirts up around her hips until she can reach the bare skin of her quim. Each day, it’s already wet.</p><p>She rubs at it carefully each time, hoping to bring about the same intoxicating feelings that he had, needing another chance to experience it. She pets the little bundle of nerves at the top before dipping down lower, letting her fingers drag through the mess there again and again until they are coated in her essence.</p><p>Then she dips them inside, frantic to feel that high.</p><p>She never quite manages it, no matter how long she spends trying.</p><p>She wonders if there is a technique that she’s missing; something no one had ever thought to teach her. Or perhaps something she wasn’t permitted to be taught. Something perverse. Something unholy.</p><p>The feeling that she remembers — can almost recreate if only her fingers were a little more dexterous — was something unholy indeed. Certainly if all women knew they could feel this way, the would revolt when they didn't receive it.</p><p>She wonders, too, if Dr. Blake would be able to do this without the machine. With just his hands on her slick skin, rubbing and teasing until she cries out for release, begging for his mercy.</p><p>She lets out an annoyed huff as again that edge seems to elude her. Every time she does this — every time she rubs herself until she is nearly unhinged without ever finding the relief at the end — she seems only to prolong her suffering. She finds herself wet at all times of the day now, remembering what could be if only she knew what she was doing. </p><p>But she doesn’t. And she doesn’t know how to remedy that beyond to keep attempting, to keep fanning the ever-growing flame. One way or another, it’ll eventually consume her</p><p>And each time she makes the attempt, her thoughts turn towards his calloused fingers or his cherubic curls or his pretty waistcoats highlighting a beautiful figure.</p><p>But mostly, they turn to his restraints.</p><p>Each time she gives up, angry and bitterly disappointed after nearly an hour of trying to find that elusive <em> something, </em> she thinks of those restraints. Cries out to be in them again, to not be able to touch herself at all because she’s tied down, immobile under his piercing gaze and roving hands. </p><p>She would have to beg him to touch her. Would have to make every promise imaginable to get his hands where she needed them most. He would draw it out, turn it into agony as her hips jolt against their bindings.</p><p>And she would do it. She would plead. Would offer anything, say and do <em> anything </em> to be brought again to that feeling, that place she can never reach on her own.</p><p>It’s the sincerest agony to know that she can’t have that — can’t possibly find a way to tie herself down and still touch herself. And she can’t ask Finn, can’t hope that he’ll understand this depravity. Not even the doctor himself would understand these needs. To him, those restraints are a practical solution for a problem that he and other professionals have observed. He only uses them to make his job easier.</p><p>It isn’t his job to walk next to her into hell. He’s only there to make sure she doesn’t drive herself insane.</p><p>The irony is that he’s the very thing that’s going to make her mad.</p><p>He hadn’t meant to bring this out in her — to find the whore she hadn’t even known was there and unleash her upon the world.</p><p>But when she brings her fingers to her lips, sucking off the slick that coats them one by one…</p><p>She knows it’s already too late for her. The burning she feels — this burning desire that she’ll never figure out how to quench — is the punishment she rightly deserves.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>A month later, when she’s suffered <em> thirty days </em> of torment from not being able to find that pleasure on her own, she asks Finn to make her another appointment.</p><p>She blushes in embarrassed disappointment the entire time. She should be better than this. She shouldn’t need to see a doctor under false pretenses to save her from this need.</p><p>But she asks anyway, desperate to feel that sensation once more.</p><p>He doesn’t even hesitate. He runs over to the little office of Dr. Blake that very afternoon to make the appointment. </p><p>He probably thinks that Clarke will be happier in this marriage — happier with him — if only she sees this doctor and undergoes his mysterious procedure enough times. Probably thinks this marriage has hope, and that they can find happiness together.</p><p>She hangs her head in shame.</p><p>But the appointment is scheduled for the following Saturday, and for all the guilt she feels, she never asks him to cancel it.</p><p>She would regret it too much if she did.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>“Mrs. Collins. I mean — Clarke, right? That was what you preferred?”</p><p>“Yes, Clarke is fine. Thank you for… seeing me again, doctor. On short notice.”</p><p>“Of course,” he smiles. “Just doing my job.”</p><p>She withholds the frown she’d instinctively wanted to make at those words.</p><p>“Do you get many repeat patients? Or is the treatment supposed to be one and done?”</p><p>He chuckles, glancing over her file before looking at her.</p><p>“About an even split I’d say, though I think some don’t come back out of embarrassment, even if they could really do with another session.”</p><p>She hums politely, having nothing else to say. She’s only relieved she hasn’t tarnished herself in some covert way by returning.</p><p>“If you’re ready then, why don’t you sit back and I’ll get everything set up to start.”</p><p>He wheels a little table over towards her feet, the machine sitting on top of it. Then he checks over a few knobs that she can’t parse the meanings for before moving to her side.</p><p>“Just going to strap you down again if that’s okay.” He circles the leather around her right wrist, and she has to clutch at the armrest to keep silent.</p><p>
  <em> It’s okay. More than okay. Please tie me down. </em>
</p><p>He switches to the other side, going through the same buckling process. Just as he’s finishing, checking to make sure it’s not tight enough to hurt, she casually says, “Actually, doctor, while I’m here, I have another medical question.”</p><p>The words roll off her tongue too easily, but once they’ve been said she begins to panic. She’s imagined this — fantasized about it even over the last thirty days — but now in the light of his office, it seems silly to even attempt. She’d hoped she wouldn’t actually be dumb enough to try.</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“It’s just… well, I’m not sure you’re even the right kind of doctor for this, but…”</p><p>She trails off, cheeks red.</p><p>“It’s alright; you can tell me. If I can’t help personally, I can always refer you along.”</p><p>
  <em> Please don’t refer me to someone else. </em>
</p><p>“It’s just… I’ve never dealt with this before, but I thought I might’ve noticed a… a strange bump under the skin of my… um, breast.”</p><p>“I can check that if you like,” he replies easily. “Let me just undo these.”</p><p>He motions to the restraints.</p><p>“No.” Her eyes widen at her own horrendously hasty response, and he quirks an eyebrow at her. “I mean… it’s hardly worth undoing them just to redo them in a moment. I wore a simple frock today. If you unbutton the back and ease the corset lacings, it should be—“</p><p>Her throat closes on the word <em> fine </em> as he moves to undo her dress.</p><p>Since she’d first entered the office, his voice had been polite and friendly. Warm, even — as far as doctors go. Now, though, there’s an edge to it, like he can stare straight through her, parsing the truths from the lies. “I see, Mrs. Collins. <em> Clarke. </em> You said you felt a lump?”</p><p>Her voice goes quiet with nerves. “I thought I felt one. I’m not sure.”</p><p>He slides the unbuttoned top of her dress down her arms as far as he can before it meets the restraints. Then he moves to the laces on her corset. Instead of unlacing them, he first pulls them just a little bit tighter, forcing an alarmed gasp from her lips.</p><p>“My apologies.”</p><p>Then, his dexterous doctor’s hands make quick work of it until it’s loose enough to access her breasts.</p><p>“Over the chemise?” He asks carefully, looking her in the eye. “Or—?”</p><p>“Whatever you prefer,” she says quickly, voice breathy and thin. “In your… capacity as a doctor.”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>He runs his fingers over the crest of each breast, the feeling making her shiver. His touch is so gentle through the thin material, a lingering sort of agony. Then he pulls the neckline down beneath the ample swells, baring her completely to the room.</p><p>In the cool air, her nipples harden like little bullseyes, begging for his touch. She wonders if that’s normal — if it’s the response from her body that he’d been expecting.</p><p>Or if perhaps it’s abnormal, giving away her need. </p><p>She’s not sure it’s possible for her blush to deepen, but as his eyes graze over her nakedness, she thinks she must give it a valiant effort. His gaze is like a caress, gentle and sweet but also somehow terrible and filled with torment.</p><p>Finally, he lets his hands cup her breasts, thumbs probing the skin in various places as they circle her nipples, moving closer and closer to where she most desires his touch.</p><p>In the back of her mind, she wonders why he didn’t ask which breast she’d supposedly had the lump in. She hasn’t even thought of which one to say in advance, and at this point probably couldn’t articulate an answer if she tried, but she can’t help but fantasize that he doesn’t care. That he knew she was lying and chose to do this anyway. </p><p>Or maybe it’s just protocol to check both, but she throws that thought out as soon as it comes to her. She wants to imagine…</p><p>“This all feels fine, Clarke. Are you sure you felt something earlier?”</p><p>He doesn’t remove his hands at all while he speaks, still letting them circle over her skin. Her nipples ache with how tight they are. She wants him to put them in his <em> mouth, </em> to suck on them one by one until she cries out. To bite down. To make her mad with lust.</p><p>“Yes,” she gasps out. “I thought so. I might’ve been mistaken.”</p><p>“Mistaken? Hmm…” he rubs closer, closer. “Let me keep checking just to be sure.” </p><p>His thumbs brush across her nipples, dragging slowly once, twice, a third time…</p><p>Her hands jolt against the restraints, needing to hold him there so he’ll keep touching her. Needing to…</p><p>Needing to touch herself, to ease the wetness she feels between her legs. </p><p>“This feels good too,” he murmurs, moving his thumbs over them again. She tries not to make a pathetic mewling sound under his ministrations.</p><p>
  <em> Fuck yes it feels good, doctor. You’ve corrupted me — broken me irreparably. How else is it supposed to feel? </em>
</p><p>“Definitely no lumps.”</p><p>“You’re absolutely sure?” She forces out, not sure she wants him to stop.</p><p>“Absolutely sure,” he promises. “But if you’re ever worried, it is my job to do routine physical exams.”</p><p>She lets out a harsh breath, unbearably relieved. Whether he’s in on her game or just <em> unbelievably </em> naive, he’s given her the out she needs. This won’t be the only touch, not if she wants it again.</p><p>“Thank you, doctor. You’re very—“ she chokes as his fingers twist her nipples. “Very accommodating.”</p><p>There’s no way <em> that </em>was some routine test. It couldn’t be. </p><p>Could it?</p><p>Unfortunately, she knows little of the medical practice and perhaps even less about her own body, but she hopes beyond measure that they’re on the same page.</p><p>He pulls away, and if she hadn’t been tied down, she would’ve tugged him back. In that moment, she loathes the straps — absolutely loathes them.</p><p>But also she loves them. He decides when she earns his touch, and the moment he wants to take it away, it’s gone. There’s something grotesquely, wonderfully masochistic about the state of being so needy, so desperate, and yet so completely dependent on his good will.</p><p>“Let’s get on with the exam. You can fix the top of your dress when we’re finished.”</p><p>It’s not a question, and she doesn’t complain. </p><p>She nods a little too eagerly. “Yes, doctor.”</p><p>He smiles at her. </p><p>“Usually I like to use the vibrating device for these sessions because it makes the job easier. But before we had that, we did everything manually, and I think going back to basics would better suit your treatment today.”</p><p>“Of course, doctor. Whatever you think is best.”</p><p>She’s not entirely certain what he means, but she knows she needs it. Whatever it is, her body is crying out for it.</p><p>He moves between her legs, raising her skirts out of the way. She looks down at him — looks down past her naked, exposed breasts and her hands that are barely more than white knuckles around the armrests they’re tied to — to watch as he opens her up before him.</p><p>He places her feet in the stirrups before spreading them wide. “Do I need to strap your legs down?” </p><p>She wonders if the correct answer is <em> no doctor, I can stay still. </em></p><p>Instead she goes tense all over at the feeling of pleasure that races beneath her skin.</p><p>“Please.”</p><p>He nods, wrapping each ankle in the leather that will force them into place. Her body is his instrument to wield and play. Whether he chooses to create the softest sonata or the loudest cacophony imaginable, whether he strums her so gently or breaks her into unrecognizable pieces — that is only for him to decide.</p><p>He runs his hands up and down her inner thighs, each pass moving closer to where she’s grown so wet.</p><p>He must see it. He must <em> smell </em>it, the need coating her skin, and yet he just keeps working his hands up and down, up and down.</p><p>So wants to beg him to touch her — wants to offer up her soul in exchange for his fingers.</p><p>“You’ve been very good so far, Clarke. So patient like a good girl should be.”</p><p>She lets her head drop back onto the cushion propping her up at those words. That commanding condescension that makes her feel like she hangs on the end of a thread he holds.</p><p>“Look at me.”</p><p>The order is quiet, but steel underlies the words. Her eyes immediately fly to his. </p><p>“Good. You’ve really done very well, especially when I can see how desperately overdue you were for this treatment session. We shouldn’t be so remiss with your health in the future.”</p><p>“No, doctor,” she says through her teeth, straining against the bonds. His hands keep teasing her thighs, higher and higher.</p><p>“It’s very important to me as your doctor that you be able to ask for what you need. Like you did with your breasts.” The word makes her shiver, his phantom touch lingering on her sensitive nipples. “That was very good behavior, sweetheart.”</p><p>His fingers make a single pass over her folds, circling that nerve ending once before returning to her thighs.</p><p>“Please,” she cries out quietly, no longer able to contain it.</p><p>“Good. I want you to always tell me what you’re feeling so I can help you.”</p><p>“I don’t— don’t know the words.”</p><p>She’s never been taught about her own body before. She knows only a few things: it can take Finn’s cock, even if it’s sometimes dry and painful; it (probably) can make a baby; and Dr. Blake’s appointments make it do strange, unnatural things.</p><p>“That’s alright. I’ll teach you, sweetheart. Here in the safety of this office, this spot,” he runs his hand over her opening, fingers teasing her gently, “is called your cunt. Or your pussy. Okay? Why don’t you repeat them back to me?”</p><p>“Cunt,” she whispers, the word feeling dirty and disgusting on her lips right up until he sinks that first finger into her. “Uhh, <em> god. </em>Pussy.”</p><p>“Very good,” he says, pulling the finger back out after a few delicious pumps. She whimpers. “What is it?”</p><p>“My cunt. My cunt.”</p><p>“Perfect. You’re a very good little student. So amenable to her lessons.”</p><p>If he was anyone else — if he was her ugly old schoolmaster or her pastor or her husband — she would’ve yelled at him for being so rude. The schoolmaster would’ve whipped her palms with the cane. The pastor would’ve made her kneel down and pray for forgiveness. Her husband would’ve sent her to bed.</p><p>And yet, the words from Dr. Blake’s mouth make her feel strangely proud. It’s hardly an accomplishment, and yet she finds she wants to impress him. She wants to be his good little student.</p><p>Though, if he wanted to cane her hands or make her kneel before him, she thinks it would only increase the need emanating from her <em> cunt. </em></p><p>“Thank you, Dr. Blake.” His warm smile is reward enough. “Those aren’t, um, medical terms?”</p><p>He brushes his fingers along her<em> pussy </em> again, making her hips fly up. He holds her down with his other arm.</p><p>“No,” he smirks. “Those words are just for us. And I have another one for you, since you’re being so sweet today. It’s the one you’ll really need if you want to tell me how to best perform these treatments.”</p><p>“Please, doctor.”</p><p>Her body is on fire. One wrong move will set the whole thing ablaze, and it’s exactly what she’s hoping for.</p><p>“This wonderfully sensitive little spot right here,” he brushes his fingers over it once, and luckily the arm is still across her hips to keep her from flying out of her chair, restraints be damned. “This is your clit. You’ll definitely want to ask to have that stimulated.”</p><p>Then he pulls away entirely, setting both hands — one wet from her <em> cunt </em> — on his trousers.</p><p>She pants heavily against the empty ache she feels in his absence. </p><p>“Ask for what you want. Otherwise how will I know how to help you?”</p><p>“Please. My— my cunt. My clit. Please touch them.”</p><p>“I’m not sure. Be good for me and keep asking.”</p><p>She frowns, letting her head thump back again in frustration. “You’re a doctor. You know what I need. It’s your job to know.”</p><p>He moves closer again, so close that it’s painful. He lets his fingertips graze so lightly against her clit that it’s barely more than a whisper of air. She’s not even certain he’s making contact — she might be imagining that there isn’t a slim little gap between his skin and her body. She can feel that tiny little thing — usually so dormant and tame — now all swollen and needy.</p><p>“If I’m only your doctor, then I’ll get the vibrator and put it here on your clit. I won’t touch anywhere else — not your thighs or your cunt or your pretty little nipples. Just your clit. It’ll be over so quickly. So quickly that you’ll hardly even enjoy it, and then you’ll leave bitterly disappointed. So if you want that, fine. But if you want something better, you’re going to have to be good for me and ask nicely.”</p><p>She draws in a breath, pained and shattered just as the rest of her body is in the wake of those words. If this is what she’d wanted — if her body and her mind had been crying out for more than a doctor can provide — then he’s clearly up to the challenge. He’s willing to be what she wants from him. But she has to beg; has to make clear that this is what she is so desperate for. That nothing short of this sweet torture will ever suffice.</p><p>Begging is <em> humiliating. </em></p><p>And yet something about being made to beg for what she needs is so gloriously perverted that it makes her want to cry with joy. The muddled, confusing feelings have her head spinning, and she doesn’t bother to keep them straight.</p><p>“Please. <em> Please. </em> I need your touch. I need your fingers. Please put your fingers in my cunt — please rub my clit until—“</p><p>She rattles her hands uselessly against the bindings again, feeling trapped and pinned before him. Feeling spread and vulnerable and open and <em> perfect </em> and repulsive and so, so wet. Her skin is one unending nerve. He could drag a finger over the arch of her foot or down her cheekbone and she’d cry out in pained desire. He has her poised on the knife’s edge, so ready for whatever comes next.</p><p>“Do whatever you want with me. Please. Please, I need it. I need you to touch me.”</p><p>He looks up at her with a sweet smile, the look oddly juxtaposed against her ungodly requests and his place between her legs, face only a breath from her <em> cunt. </em>“Of course, sweetheart. All you had to do was ask.”</p><p>He plunges two fingers into her instantly, but she’s dripping so much that it doesn’t hurt. He slides them in and out before crooking them against a spot inside that she’d never known existed before — a place that turns the whole room into a blur around her as she claws at the leather holding her down again. She needs less.</p><p>She needs so much more.</p><p>“Good. Such a good, sweet girl for me.”</p><p>His other hand begins to work her clit, and she can’t form words, can’t articulate any reaction in response to what he’s making her feel. Making her suffer through. She can’t decide if his touch is a blessing or a curse.</p><p>“Bet you wish you weren’t tied down right now so you could play with your pretty nipples.” She groans at the thought, loud and animalistic. “But you wanted so badly to be in the straps, and I’m too busy with your cunt and your clit, exactly as you requested.” Her nipples feel so tight, so bereft in the absence of any touch now that he’s reminded her. The air stirring around her teases the tips, making the feeling all the worse. “Next time, maybe. Right, Clarke?”</p><p>She doesn’t know — doesn’t <em> know. </em>Instead of trying to know when that’s his job, she just chants out “Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yesssssss.”</p><p>His fingers speed up, and without a third hand to keep her hips in place, he has to follow her body as it jerks around.</p><p>Finally, finally he sends her over into the abyss — into the waiting arms of whatever demon has decided to torment her for eternity. She cries out, throat raw and exhausted as the pleasure washes over her body. </p><p>For a long time — seconds, minutes, days — she exists in a between space, only cognizant enough to keep forcing air into her body as everything else seemingly shuts down.</p><p>When she’s comes to, he’s petting along the top of her thigh with one hand, while the other very gently runs a cloth over her sex. She jerks against it, feeling overstimulated. He pulls back for a moment before carefully trying again. The whole time, he speaks in a soft, soothing voice.</p><p>He’s… he’s cleaning her. Taking care of her.</p><p>“You did so well, Clarke. Shh, it’s okay. I know that was a lot, but you’re okay. You’re okay.”</p><p>When he’s satisfied that she’s clean, he closes up the slits in her undergarments before hitting the latch that unlocks the stirrups, allowing her feet to come together again. With nimble fingers, he frees her ankles before moving up to each wrist. All the while he keeps speaking to her, and in her stupor she can only stare up at him, eyes wide and lost.</p><p>“It’s okay, Clarke. You did wonderfully. It’s okay to relax now.”</p><p>She feels like her head is trapped in a cloud, unable to fully process anything. She watches as he pulls her wrist free before massaging the skin there, then moves down to her palm and each of her fingers. So gentle, so careful. When she can feel each one from thumb to pinky, he sets it carefully down on her still bare stomach. She’d forgotten she was nude on top, showing her breasts so carelessly to this man who is next to a perfect stranger.</p><p>But he doesn’t so much as look at her breasts, still heaving under labored breaths, as he moves to her other hand. He removes the bindings before massaging it as well, eyes flicking only between her hand and her eyes. She watches him watching her, still carefully rubbing at her hands until they unclench, still whispering sweet, calming words.</p><p>Once he finishes with the second hand, he guides her up just far enough to help her move her dress back into place. First her chemise is pulled so delicately over her breasts, then he ties her corset back into place. He leaves it loose enough, not wanting to restrict her breathing in any way. Then he slides her dress back up to button down her back.</p><p>She can’t believe— she can’t believe she’d come to this appointment so inappropriately underdressed. None of the right layers all so she could what? Seduce her doctor as quickly as possible?</p><p>And it had worked. </p><p>She isn’t sure if she should be sick or be proud.</p><p>“It’s okay,” he says again, running a hand down her back. “You did very well, Clarke. That was just what you needed. That’s why you made the appointment.”</p><p>Finn had made the appointment. Finn…</p><p>Finn wanted this?</p><p>Well, not <em> this </em> presumably. But he knew what this doctor did, or else he wouldn’t have made an appointment to begin with. So he must on some level <em> want </em> her to come here and… feel good.</p><p>So it can’t be wrong, surely? Even if it’s… perhaps unethically achieved. This is what he’d wanted. She’s just… a tougher case than most. Requires extra <em> help. </em></p><p>She nods, swallowing carefully. “Thank you, Dr. Blake. For… helping me.”</p><p>She doesn’t know if she means for dressing her or for touching her. Both, maybe.</p><p>“Of course, Clarke. That’s what I’m here for.”</p><p>“I— I’m not sure I understand.”</p><p>He smiles carefully, small and a little wary. “I know.” His hand keeps moving up and down her back. “This is very confusing. If you don’t want to come back, I understand. But if you do, I’ll book you another appointment for two weeks from now so you can think about it. Same time as this one was.”</p><p>It was the last appointment of his Saturday. She knows that because the secretary out front had left as soon as she’d finished checking Clarke in, shouting a quick goodbye to Dr. Blake as she’d rushed out the door.</p><p>“And we’ll…?”</p><p>“We’ll talk. About everything. And then, only once we’ve had a very long talk, you can decide what happens next.”</p><p>“Okay,” she whispers, looking up at him.</p><p>“Okay?” He tucks a stray strand of hair up into her bun. She must be a mess. People will think she’s lost her mind running home looking like this.</p><p>“Okay,” she repeats, the word coming out with more certainty on the second attempt. “Okay. Two weeks.”</p><p>“Yes.” He smiles. </p><p>She flushes again, and he helps her with her coat. Her fingers tremble the whole time, unable to handle any fine motor function after feeling so much so quickly. </p><p>She turns to leave once her coat is in place, but he grabs her hand, squeezing it once between his.</p><p>“I hope you’ll come back, Clarke.”</p><p>She doesn’t respond, but the look in her eyes — the need, the desire, the question of just how far this can go — must be obvious.</p><p>Finally, he nods, releasing her hand to open the door for her.</p><p>“Thank you, doctor.”</p><p>And then she’s gone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Drop a comment if this depravity was worth ten minutes of your time</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The smut’s just going to keep getting dirtier each chapter, so if you feel you’ve hit your limit, I’d recommend tapping out.</p><p>This chapter is probably longer than any others will ever be, mainly because there was a lot of dialogue to deal with. Can you tell that these convos have been living rent free in my head since puberty?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clarke eats dinner that night in a daze, not even certain of what she’s cooked.</p><p>“How was the appointment? Everything went okay?”</p><p>She looks up at Finn, trying to understand the muffled words in her head.</p><p>“What? Oh, it was fine.”</p><p><em> Fine </em> probably qualifies as an understatement. </p><p>
  <em> It wrecked my soul. It ruined my life. You will never be able to touch me the way that Dr. Blake did, and now I have to live with that knowledge.  </em>
</p><p><em> The knowledge of what my body — my </em> cunt <em> — is capable of feeling. </em></p><p>“I’m glad,” he smiles warmly, seemingly unaware of the way she feels both dead inside and electrified. Each iota of her person is trying to break apart, to escape from the others.</p><p>“Mmm.”</p><p>They finish dinner in what he presumably considers to be a comfortable silence.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>When he pushes his cock into her that night, she stares sightlessly at the wall. He bats at her breasts, like that might bring her attention to him or make her moan in pleasure.</p><p>It doesn’t. </p><p>The only thing that gives her the slightest twinge of warmth in her body is the thought of Dr. Blake’s cock replacing her husband’s. How it would feel inside her <em> cunt </em> as his fingers teased her aching <em> clit, </em> making her cry out for the place she needs him to bring her to. The place that only he decides if she’s earned access to.</p><p>She squeezes her eyes shut tight as she pictures this scene, Finn still moving within her.</p><p>He does not help her find that place, but she never thought he would.</p><p>When he flops over, his spend seeping out of her, she says nothing, quickly feigning sleep.</p><p>He seems disappointed for a brief moment before succumbing to rest himself.</p><p>The thought of the doctor’s fingers on her nipples, on her <em> clit, </em>unlacing and relacing her corset keeps her up all night.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>In church the next day, she once again feels the judgmental eyes of Pastor Cadogan on her. It might only be her imagination — a manifestation of her guilt — and yet she’s so worried he can see beneath her demure clothes and placid smile to the wanton moaning whore beneath.</p><p>The more she thinks about it though, the more she wonders if it‘s fair. Jesus hadn’t spurned the prostitutes he had known, and Clarke hadn’t even gone that far. What she had done was a medical procedure.</p><p>Or that’s what she tells herself at her lowest moments anyway, even if it isn’t true.</p><p>Dr. Blake had given her the chance to keep it professional — had left that important decision up to her — and yet she’d chosen to be dirty. To lead him with her into immorality.</p><p>
  <em> “If I’m only your doctor, then I’ll get the vibrator and put it here on your clit. I won’t touch anywhere else.” </em>
</p><p>Although then he’d gone on to remind her how unsatisfying that option would be, so maybe they were defrauding each other, nudging each other further and further from any hope of redemption.</p><p>But she’d still chosen to be destroyed. She could’ve taken the safer route if only she wasn’t like this.</p><p>She turns her head at one point, unable to handle the way Pastor Cadogan’s eyes rove over her during his lengthy sermon. Out of the corner of her vision, she sees…</p><p>
  <em> Dark, cherubic curls. Golden skin. Lips that she knows look delicious when curled into the depraved smirk she sees in her dreams. </em>
</p><p>What on <em> earth </em>is he doing here?</p><p>Their church is bigger than most because of their position in the city, but she’d still felt more or less certain before this moment that she’d known just about every member of their congregation. </p><p>Most people hang around to talk and gossip after the service. They organize community projects through the church. They have a women’s sewing circle that Finn keeps trying to get her involved with, and the men occasionally help perform small repairs to the building when required.</p><p>She knows these people well enough, and they know her. Or at least they know the version of her that she’s still trying to convince herself exists. The good version, not the <em> good girl. </em></p><p>But she’s never seen him here before. Not once.</p><p>Her heart jolts at the sight of him, and she turns back to facing front as quickly as possible. Her Sunday dress makes a quiet rustling sound, and she can feel the stares from the pew behind her on her back. The Lightbourne family will certainly titter about this <em> oddity </em> with their friends as they leave later.</p><p>She grinds her teeth together, begging for this torment to end. That’s what it is, surely. He was sent here to undo her, to pull her apart until only her ravaged remains and a puddle of her own slick are all that’s left.</p><p>Her hands curl into little fists in her lap as she tries not to look over at him again, tries to scrub from her mind the sudden slew of images of him defiling her on the altar. </p><p>
  <em> He would tie her down to the table before the entire congregation, spread naked and needy until she could only beg for him to touch her. </em>
</p><p><em> Pastor Cadogan would call her a whore, and for some reason it would sting in a different way than she imagined it might feel coming from the doctor’s mouth, and yet that word said aloud about </em> her, <em> about her desires and fantasies, would still make her embarrassingly wet. Knowing that her Pastor would never look at her without contempt felt right somehow. It’s what she deserved. </em></p><p>
  <em> The doctor would notice that wetness immediately. Would dance his fingers across her sensitive skin while calling her the most lewd names and making fun of her predilection for being used in front of a man of God, and the people in the pews would gasp and murmur to each other about what became of that good Mrs. Collins. How far she’d fallen from a once promising future as a wife and mother to a successful man. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And Finn would look angry and embarrassed, but that wouldn’t be enough to deter her from crying out as the fingers she needed fucked their way into her needy cunt. </em>
</p><p>She squeezes her fits tighter, the nails digging painfully into her palms.</p><p>Stop imagining it. Stop imagining it.</p><p>Not here. Not in the church.</p><p>Finn moves his hand to rest over one of her little balled up fists, thumb smoothing over her knuckles. It does nothing to calm her.</p><p>She’s tense for the rest of the service, imagining the feeling of the doctor’s gaze on her right now. What he must think of her, pretending to be some devout woman. </p><p>Perhaps he hasn’t even noticed her.</p><p>Or perhaps he has, and he’s consumed by thoughts of what she hides away under heavy layers of skirts.</p><p>Pastor Cadogan’s sermon runs long that morning, and she hears none of it.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>“Dr. Blake! I didn’t know you went to this church!”</p><p>She almost hits Finn when he calls out to the doctor after they’ve exited their pew, but she refrains, keeping her eyes trained on the ground.</p><p>“Mr. Collins, Mrs. Collins. Lovely to see you both,” he says, voice distracted. There is nothing there — no hint of recognition to their shared secret — and the lack of it makes her heart clench. “I don’t always attend this service as I don’t live in the immediate area, but sometimes it’s easier if I need to be in the office on Sunday to come here first. Pastor Cadogan has been very welcoming to me since my practice opened up.”</p><p>“Yes, he’s great,” Finn says offhandedly, more a polite response than a genuine one. “I moved into the parish a few years back, but he’s been Clarke’s Pastor since she was a child. Isn’t that right?”</p><p>“Yes.” The word comes out softly, embarrassed by the reminder that the man who baptized her as a baby is now watching as she becomes a perfect heathen.</p><p>Dr. Blake nods. “How wonderful. Anyways, I shouldn’t keep you.”</p><p>A dismissal.</p><p>“Of course. Oh, before you go, doctor, I think I should ask about scheduling my wife another appointment.”</p><p>Clarke gasps, moving this time to actually hit his shoulder as she’d wanted to before. <em> “Finn. </em> This isn’t the appropriate time or place to talk about this.”</p><p>The period after church was the gossips’ hunting ground. He would have everyone thinking she was insane if he didn’t shut up.</p><p>The doctor purses his lips. “I’ll work something out, Mr. Collins. Have a lovely day.”</p><p>He tips the hat he’d only just put on once they’d reached the church steps, and without waiting for a goodbye, he disappears.</p><p>Clarke’s eyes follow him the whole way, even as Finn turns her towards another conversation.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>Finn touches her every night that week, and every night she’s unsatisfied.</p><p>She touches herself every morning that week, and every morning she agonizes for hours and <em> hours, </em> pleading with her own fingers to do what she requires, but she is unsatisfied.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>He is not in church the next Sunday. It doesn’t stop her from picturing him taking her up against the organ or in the rectory or near the baptismal font, holding her face just above the little pool of water to remind her that he could push her face into it at any moment.</p><p>She isn’t even sure <em> why </em> that of all things is hot, but she is sweating under the collar of her dress.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>She counts down every day of the next week, longing for Saturday. Even if it scares her. Even if she has no inkling of what he’ll say.</p><p>If he touches her — if her pleas are enough to sway him again — it will be enough.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>When she steps into his office, listening to the sound of the receptionist girl locking the front door of the office behind her as she again departs to enjoy her Saturday afternoon, Clarke feels nervous.</p><p>Nervous that he’ll say they can’t do this again.</p><p>Nervous that he’ll say they <em> can. </em></p><p>“Clarke, good afternoon.”</p><p>He doesn’t even look up from his desk at first, waving at her to take a seat.</p><p>He doesn’t wave her on towards the normal reclining chair — her chair with the restraints and the stirrups that make her feel so gloriously out of control.</p><p>Instead, he gestures towards a normal wooden chair seated innocuously against a wall.</p><p>“Dr. Blake.”</p><p>She sits.</p><p>He finishes whatever he’s writing, setting down his pen before finally looking over at her. There’s a tiredness behind his eyes that she sees for a moment before he smiles.</p><p>“Sorry. Let’s talk. Just as Bellamy and Clarke.”</p><p><em> Bellamy. </em> She hadn’t known his name before. Bellamy.</p><p>He moves his desk chair closer to hers, but not close enough that she can reach out to him without moving. She wants to touch him, wants to feel his skin against hers so she can figure out why it feels so different from Finn’s skin. Why the doctor makes her blood sing in a way her husband can’t.</p><p>“So, to state plainly, I don’t think the current treatment plan will be enough.”</p><p>“Treatment for <em> what?” </em> She asks in frustration. Is this still about Finn thinking she’s going crazy? “And I thought you weren’t my doctor anymore. Or weren’t trying to operate strictly as a doctor, at least.”</p><p>She looks down, suddenly feeling shy at the reference to his past words.</p><p>
  <em> If I’m only your doctor… </em>
</p><p>He isn’t only her doctor. She doesn’t want to continue down that path, knowing it leads to nothing.</p><p>“Sorry, I should explain better. This <em> treatment </em> isn’t so much about what Mr. Collins thinks it is, and I don’t mean it that way. But you do need… more than is currently being given to you, it seems. And I can offer that to you. As a doctor, technically, even if this isn’t strictly a medical procedure.”</p><p>“So what is it? If it’s not a medical procedure?”</p><p>“It’s… training, I guess. An education in the way your body operates and how that might be different from other people’s.”</p><p>“Am I broken? Wrong?”</p><p>“No. In fact, you’d be surprised to know that there are many others with similar… needs. And interests.”</p><p>“And do you offer your services to everyone with these needs?”</p><p>He laughs. “No. My patients here all receive the treatment you did in that first session. Quick and clinical, without any of the extras. I’ve only had this sort of arrangement once, and she wasn’t a patient.”</p><p>“What was the arrangement?”</p><p>“She liked pain,” he says honestly, a quick, almost cruel smile flashing across his face for a moment. “Her mind turned pain into pleasure. And I could offer that to her in a safe manner.”</p><p>“Pain?” She asks warily.</p><p>“Yes. Like how you enjoy being restrained. It heightens the experience.”</p><p>She blushes, unable to make eye contact any longer. He can see right through her, and the feeling is unnerving.</p><p>“Like… you hit her?”</p><p>“Yes. And there were other ways to do it, too. Paddles, whips, clamps for her nipples, heat, ice… all sorts of options. All done safely. She could’ve stopped the game at any time.”</p><p>“It’s a game?”</p><p>“I suppose. She gave up control to me to make her feel good, and I had all the room I wanted to play with her until she told me to stop.”</p><p>“And you stopped? If she asked?”</p><p>“Yes. And no, I suppose. She would beg me to stop a lot. Would cry for mercy with every flick of the whip against her bare ass. She’d look like a mess — covered in snot and drool as her cunt leaked down her legs. But I never stopped for that.”</p><p>“Why?” Her voice is a whisper, terrified and enthralled in equal measure.</p><p>“Because that was the pain speaking, and we both knew that. She would say anything in the heat of the moment, but the game only stopped whenever she said a specific word. That word told me she was serious, and everything would end immediately. I only hurt her as much as she needed to be hurt.” He looks her over. “Am I scaring you?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Do you want me to stop?”</p><p>She shakes her head slowly. “No.”</p><p>“Are you horny?”</p><p>“Horny?”</p><p>“Is your cunt wet?”</p><p>“Oh.” She closes her eyes, not wanting to watch as she admits the truth. “Yes.”</p><p>“I could offer the same to you.”</p><p>“What, pain?”</p><p>“If that’s what you wanted. But other things too. Like the restraints. Or whatever else your mind finds itself fixating on.”</p><p>“I—”</p><p>“You want something from me,” he says knowingly. “Open your eyes and tell me.”</p><p>The words are quiet, but the command in them speaks to her in an uncomfortably good way. She feels that command in her cunt.</p><p>She opens her eyes.</p><p>“I don’t think I can say it. Not without… feeling pressured.”</p><p>“I don’t want you to feel pressured. This conversation should be done with clear heads.”</p><p>“I can’t. It’s not—” She wants to say it doesn’t matter, not when she’s already soaked. She couldn’t have a clear head right now if she tried. Instead she just says, “Please.”</p><p>He moves forward carefully until his knees are pressed against hers.</p><p>Then he reaches forward, running a single fingertip along the column of her throat before wrapping his whole hand around it.</p><p>He gives one quick squeeze, tightening his fingers only barely, before loosening them again so they’re just resting on her neck. The hand is so big that it covers the entire front and wraps around back behind her ear.</p><p>She gasps at the feeling.</p><p>His thumb keeps idly caressing her skin, a reminder that he can squeeze again at any time.</p><p>“Tell me what it is you want from me. What you picture that makes you so wet.”</p><p>“I… the restraints.”</p><p>“You like to be tied down? Unable to move?”</p><p>“Yes,” she says breathily, eyes trained down towards his arm and where it disappears beneath the jut of her chin. “Trapped. At your mercy. Unable to stop you.”</p><p>He nods. “Only the leather restraints? Or other things too? Ropes crisscrossing until they cover your skin, holding you in whatever position I choose? Handcuffs to make you feel like you’ve done something truly terrible?”</p><p>She chokes. “Yes. All of it, yes.”</p><p>He lets the nail of his thumb scrape gently along her throat. “What else?”</p><p>“Names,” she forces out.</p><p>“Names? What, you want me to call you sweetheart like before? Good girl? Princess?”</p><p>“Yes. Yes.” Her vision nearly whites out at the thought. <em> Good girl. Princess. His horny little princess. </em> “But also…”</p><p>She closes her eyes again.</p><p>“Look at me.” She does, reluctantly. “But also?”</p><p>She swallows heavily, the feeling amplified by his hand still wrapped around her neck. It’s strange to have someone be able to feel her shame in this visceral way.</p><p>“But also?” He asks again, hand tightening for a moment in warning. She’d asked him to be in charge, and he’s doing it.</p><p>“Mean names.”</p><p>“Like?”</p><p>“Please don’t make me say it.”</p><p>“I can’t give you what you want if you don’t tell me.”</p><p>She shuts her eyes again, forcing the words out before he can command her to open them.</p><p>“Slut. Whore. Harlot.” The words she hears him call her in her dreams.</p><p>He smiles. “Cunt?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Slut, whore, harlot. Do you want to be called cunt?”</p><p>She pauses, trying to picture it. <em> Cunt </em> is new. <em> Cunt </em> is her pussy, her hole that currently defines her state of mind. Part of her — the growing part of her that has few limits and no morals — almost <em> likes </em> it. Somehow, against all odds, actually <em> likes </em> the thought of being reduced to that here in the safety of his office.</p><p>But she isn’t sure.</p><p>“I don’t know. Will you… Could you test it?”</p><p>“Mmm,” he hums, taking his other hand to brush the stray hair back from her forehead. “You’ve been such a good girl so far, Clarke. My good little cunt.”</p><p>
  <em> Yes. </em>
</p><p>Her blood positively <em> races </em>at the sinful word on his lips.</p><p>She’s not <em> cunt, </em> a body part that some people might think is her only value in the world. No, she is his cunt. His good little cunt.</p><p>“Yes. I want…” She swallows again, enjoying this time as the motion almost caresses his hand. “I want to be called that.”</p><p>“Called what, sweet girl?”</p><p>“Cunt. Your cunt.”</p><p>“Very good. What else?”</p><p>“I want… I want you to be in charge. I don’t want to make decisions.”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>“Like how I stand or what I’m wearing or how you touch me. You choose.”</p><p>“If that’s what you want, sweetheart, then I’m more than happy to choose. And you’ll do as I say? You’ll follow my orders like you have been so far?”</p><p>“Yes, doctor.”</p><p>“That’s very good of you, princess. Do you like calling me doctor?”</p><p>Yes, although she doesn’t know why. The strange distance it provides? That he sees so much of her while she can’t even use his name? That it enforces a hierarchy within their games?</p><p>She doesn’t try to explain it, only making a little <em> mhm </em> sound.</p><p>“Then you’ll keep calling me doctor while we play. Or sir, if it’s quicker to do so.”</p><p>“Sir,” she whispers, testing the word on her tongue. “Sir.”</p><p>He grins.</p><p>“Anything else?”</p><p>“How do I know? If I like pain?”</p><p>“You test it with safety measures in place.” He watches her keenly, trying to find an answer in her expression. She wonders if she looks terrified or intrigued or <em> horny. </em> “Do you want to test it?”</p><p>She doesn’t even consider it. “Yes.”</p><p>“Okay, sweet girl.”</p><p>Then he pulls back, his hand disappearing from her throat as if it had never been there. She swallows again, feeling oddly bereft that there’s no pressure on the other side.</p><p>He sits back, looking elegant in his waistcoat, the chain of a pocket watch crossing the silky fabric. By comparison, she must look like a wreck, glassy eyed and needy beyond measure.</p><p>The only thing that makes him look slightly uncomposed is the outline of his cock she can see against his black trousers.</p><p>For the first time in her life, she wants to see it. She wants to touch it, wants to jerk her hand up and down the soft skin. Wants to put it in her mouth, letting her tongue explore every ridge.</p><p>He’s Bellamy again, not her doctor. Not <em> sir. </em></p><p>But she asks anyway.</p><p>“There’s one other thing I want.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“You haven’t mentioned… anything about you. Your pleasure.”</p><p>“I feel pleasure in providing for your needs in the same way that you feel pleasure in having them met.”</p><p>“Will you use me? I’d… I’d be okay with that. I’d want that.”</p><p><em> I’d want that </em> is quite literally the understatement of the century as her mouth practically salivates at the thought of using it on him. She’s never done it before, but she’d like for him to twist his fingers in her hair and make her learn.</p><p>He shakes his head. “I don’t think we should cross that line.”</p><p>“What line?” She asks sincerely. What line is left that they aren’t already intending to cross?</p><p>“You’re married.”</p><p>She pouts, suddenly feeling less under his spell than she had been. If one half of her is a willing, amenable harlot, the other half is always ready for an argument. “So? None of the rest of this is acceptable in the bounds of marriage, but you’re still willing to do it.”</p><p>“It doesn’t seem right. I can do this for you — can give you the thing that’s missing from your life. Obviously this isn’t a doctor thing, but by the loosest terms, I’m still technically achieving the goal you’re paying me to meet.”</p><p>“My husband’s paying you, and only for the time itself. I’m not paying you to touch me. You do it for free or not at all.”</p><p>“Understood. But it doesn’t feel as deceptive if he’s being deceived in a way that he’s sort of asking for?”</p><p>“I don’t need you to care about what he’s asking for. Care about what I’m asking for,” she orders, staring at his cock.</p><p>He groans. “We’ll see.”</p><p>She doesn’t bother to keep arguing, but her eyes don’t stray.</p><p>She wants him. So, so very badly.</p><p>“There are rules.”</p><p>“Rules?” She looks up at him. </p><p>“Yes. The first rule is that we come up with our word before doing anything else, and you swear to me that you’ll use it if you feel even the littlest bit like you need to stop. Some people find shame in stopping, but I’ll be far more disappointed in you if you let me do things that you don’t want.”</p><p>She lifts an eyebrow, almost impressed by the approach. He could’ve just said he didn’t want her to push herself. Could’ve said it was against the considerably blurred but still evidently important ethics of this skewed dynamic.</p><p>But he didn’t. He said he’d be disappointed in her.</p><p>All because he knows she’d already do anything to make him proud. It’s some disease in her brain that compels her to please him, to not let him down because of her misconduct.</p><p>“What is the word meant to be?”</p><p>“Any word that wouldn’t normally factor into the game. Something distinct, unlike <em> no </em> or <em> stop </em> or anything like that. Just a random noun usually. What’s something you hate? Something memorable that you could call out when you don’t like what’s happening?”</p><p>Her first thought is Finn, which is clearly not an option. Then she runs through a list. She doesn’t like laundry or cooking, but that’s not a word she wants to use. She doesn’t like the smell of the candles Finn likes to keep around the house.</p><p>She didn’t like that gift for her he’d wasted money on in the wake of their wedding — a gift she wasn’t even supposed to eat. They were just meant to look at it.</p><p>“Pineapple,” she says easily.</p><p>“Pineapple?” He gives her a funny look before nodding. “Alright. Pineapple. You say that and everything stops, like a bucket of cold water has been poured on us.”</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>“Now swear to me that you’ll use it if you need it. If you even think you need it.”</p><p>She thinks it over, wondering where her breaking point is. If she’d had this word two weeks ago, would she have stopped him? Would she have felt too much — to many sensations for her small body and smaller world to comprehend — and made him quit?</p><p>Then she remembers that she <em> could’ve </em>stopped him at any point. She could’ve said stop, and at that point, he would’ve taken the word literally. He would’ve stopped, but she didn’t want him to. She’d needed everything he could give her.</p><p>She wonders how far she’ll be willing to fall. At what point will she be pushed so far that she can no longer stand it? She almost can’t picture that moment. Everything he’s said so far has scared her in a way that only makes her more wet.</p><p>“I promise.”</p><p>She hopes that making this oath will save him from going too easy on her.</p><p>He smiles.</p><p>“Alright. Rule two is that, if for any reason you can’t say the word, you’ll snap your fingers three times to stop.”</p><p>“Why can’t I speak?”</p><p>“Overcome in the moment. Or if you’re gagged.”</p><p>She has to close her eyes against the force of that idea. It tingles through her until she can barely keep herself from doubling over in an effort to curl around her cunt.</p><p>“Why am I gagged?” She groans out.</p><p>“You like restraint and being at my mercy. Tying your limbs down isn’t the only way to do that. I can take your ability to speak, or to see, or to hear. I can make you feel each touch so much more when your senses aren’t quite right.”</p><p>She presses her clenched fist into her lower belly.</p><p>“Okay. Yes. Gagging.”</p><p>“Rule three,” he says, looking far too pleased as he watches the effect he has on her. He isn’t even touching her, a good two feet separating them at least. And yet she already feels like a stiff breeze beneath her skirts could send her into a fit. “...is that we don’t do anything that leaves marks.”</p><p>She’s only nominally focused. “Hm?”</p><p>“No caning. No whipping. Hand spanking only. No biting, no bruising. Nothing that would lead to questions.”</p><p>She understands — of course she does. Finn can’t know. </p><p>But fucking <em> christ </em> does she want to wear the bruises he could suck into her inner thighs. Onto her neck. Around her breasts. She wants that. She wants to feel that lingering trace of possession, the reminder that her body is capable of more than anyone else is willing to talk about.</p><p>“I don’t like that one.”</p><p>“Neither do I, but it’s not up for negotiation.”</p><p>She sighs, but doesn’t say anything else.</p><p>“The last rule is that you do what I say. You’re in charge of how the game is played, but each decision within that framework is mine to make until you tell me to stop. Understand?”</p><p>“Yes, doctor.”</p><p>He smirks. “Very good. Now stand up, sweetheart.”</p><p>He takes her hand, leading her to the center of the room. She watches with keen, wary eyes as he circles around her like a vulture who has just spotted his prey.</p><p>It’s odd to know that she’s his target and still only feel prickles in her skin that come from excitement, rather than fear. The fear is there too, of course, but it’s feeding into that sense of interest in the unknown. Her heart beats heavily, the sound reverberating through her ears. She can feel it in strange parts of her body, like her thumb, clutched in the grip of her fist. And her <em> pussy. </em></p><p>She can feel it there too, and it’s distracting.</p><p>“Eyes forward, pretty girl.”</p><p>He circles again, and she tries desperately not to look back at him as his fingers trace over the small of her back, where tight corsets give way to the beginnings of a full skirt. Even through layers and layers of clothing, she can imagine the heat of his fingers.</p><p>“Keep your hands at your sides,” he whispers, moving them from where they’d been clamped together in front of her. He briefly smoothes them out, using teasing touches to trick them into unfurling, but as he moves them into position, she allows them to ball back up. She needs some small release from the thick tension.</p><p>“Will you put them in cuffs? Or ties?”</p><p>She hopes he will — wants to have that limitation out of her control. But he just circles to the front, looking her up and down once before shaking his head. </p><p>“No. For now, the only thing restraining you is that I’ve ordered it. If you want to be a good girl, you’ll do as I say. Right?”</p><p>He runs a single finger along her throat before tipping her chin up, forcing eye contact. </p><p>“Yes, doctor.”</p><p>His eyes flick to the door, checking it’s locked.</p><p>“When you’re here, my sweet little slut, you’re going to be naked. Understand? I’m tired of having to push skirts out of the way to get to what I want.”</p><p>She nods, throat dry.</p><p>“When you come in for your appointments, I might order you to immediately strip for me. If not, leave your clothing on until I decide what I want.”</p><p>Clearing her throat, she nervously asks, “Do you want me to strip for you now?”</p><p>“No. I’d like to do it this time.”</p><p>He circles again — slowly, so slowly. His fingers will occasionally pull on part of her skirt or at a ribbon along her sleeves, but he makes no effort to actually remove anything. The anticipation hangs heavily between them, coating the room in an aura of need.</p><p>He steps closer to her, his hands on her hips and his nose in her hair. She tries not to lean back into him, but she thinks she’s only partly successful. There is something oddly comforting, even in the midst of all this tension, about the feeling of his sturdy frame behind her.</p><p>Her breaths start coming in faster, and she wonders if he can see the effect it has on her breasts from over her shoulder. She wonders if he’s looking — if he can’t <em> stop </em> looking, the way she always seems to be tormented by him.</p><p>As if he’s reading her mind, he asks, “Have you touched yourself since our last visit?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>He noses at her until she tips her head to the side. Quickly, like it’s what he’d been waiting for, he moves to press innocent little kisses to her throat.</p><p>She wishes he’d bite. Wishes he’d be unapologetically vicious. </p><p>For the millionth time, she curses Finn’s name in her mind for keeping her from that reality. She knows Dr. Blake would do it if he could — would make her feel so good.</p><p>“Did it feel nice?”</p><p>She moans as his tongue touches her skin for the first time. “No. No, no, it felt terrible. I couldn’t— I didn’t—”</p><p>“Didn’t come?”</p><p>“What’s… what’s come?”</p><p>He smirks into her shoulder for a moment before moving to worry her earlobe between his teeth.</p><p>Yes. <em> Yes. </em> That’s the feeling she wants. Wants the bite of pain, the sting of pleasure.</p><p>His fingers start undoing the back of her dress. Every motion is painfully unhurried, like he could hold her in this state all day if he wanted. And if he asked, she probably would let him. He moves button by button, allowing each one to slide free until it reveals the layers beneath. </p><p>He takes his time if only to drive her mad. Her knees already feel like jelly, but she forces herself to stay ramrod straight, hands at her sides.</p><p>“Coming,” he says, bringing her back to reality, “is what happens when I give you pleasure. The paroxysms at the end. It’s also called an orgasm.”</p><p>“Coming,” she repeats diligently. He pushes her overdress off, letting it pool at her feet. “Orgasms.”</p><p>“But you can’t do it on your own, can you? Can’t cum, no matter how hard you try.”</p><p>He says it with such surety that she imagines he’d been standing in the room each time she’d frantically tried, fingers moving with chaotic, untrained energy.</p><p>“No,” she whines, feeling as he pulls her underdress’s buttons apart quicker. This time, at least, she’d come properly dressed. “I can’t do it.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, princess. I’ll help you.”</p><p>Relief fills her chest. Dr. Blake will help her. Dr. Blake knows what she needs — what she can’t even explain to herself. He sees the dark corners of her brain and isn’t afraid of them.</p><p>“How many times did you try?”</p><p>“So many. Once a day at least.”</p><p>Her underdress drops with her petticoat quickly following, and his arms wrap around her so his fingers can toy with the front of her corset, tracing along the top ridge. She wants it off — needs it off — <em> immediately. </em></p><p>“Did you think of me?”</p><p>She takes a shallow breath. “I couldn’t think of anything else.”</p><p>He unlaces the corset, and the sound of the ties coming undone fills her ears, a glorious chant of <em> soon, soon, soon. </em></p><p>“What did you think about?”</p><p>“About… about your hands. About the way my skin tingles when you touch it. About… being called <em> good—” </em></p><p>She gasps as the corset falls to the floor. His hands pull her into him, cupping her breasts as he buries his face in her shoulder.</p><p>“Called good girl,” she continues, voice breaking. “And your restraints and how much I like them,” she rambles, his hands running over her chemise the only thing she can process. Still, the words come to her. She’s been building this list up in her mind for weeks. “When you told me to beg. When you taught me about <em> cunts </em> and <em> pussies. </em> I—”</p><p>He tweaks at her nipples just as she’s imagined a hundred times, and her voice cuts out.</p><p>“Good. So good, Clarke. Such a sweet girl — a sweet slut.”</p><p>She leans back into him further, feeling lopsided. One of his arms wraps tightly around her waist, keeping her upright.</p><p>“Take off your shoes and stockings.”</p><p>Without leaving his arms, she awkwardly peels them off, baring herself completely under her thin chemise. The chill in the room causes goosebumps to rise on her skin. She leans further into his warm body behind her, wishing she could curl up against it.</p><p>Against her ass, she can feel his still-aroused cock, and she shifts in need, rubbing her thighs together.</p><p>“Did you think about these things when you saw me in church?”</p><p>She flushes, glad he can’t see her guilty expression. “Yes.”</p><p>He rucks up her chemise around her hips, and though he’s seen everything she would normally hide beneath it, something about standing in the middle of his office makes this feel more exposing than anything else they’ve done. </p><p>“Even when you weren’t there,” she continues, admitting things he hadn’t even asked because she can no longer hold her tongue. Under his spell, she wants to spill her every secret. It’s intoxicating and terrifying. “So many terrible thoughts.”</p><p>He groans into her skin. “We’re coming back to that later.”</p><p>Then he rips the chemise over her head, revealing her to the room.</p><p>He runs his hands over her bare breasts, testing their weight and teasing her nipples. She lets out an involuntary moan from low in her throat, letting her head drop back to his shoulder.</p><p>“How good are you at doing hair?” He asks, hands not stopping as they rove over each inch of her skin.</p><p>“I— what?”</p><p>“Hair. Can you replicate this later?”</p><p>She furrows her brows, thinking of the minimalist bun she’d tied her hair up in before leaving the house. It’s nothing special — just a braid she’d twisted up. It’s presentable, but only just. She wouldn’t wear it to church, and it certainly doesn’t require effort.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>Without any further warning, he moves her head off his shoulder and starts pulling the pins out of her blonde hair with abandon.</p><p>The braid falls, and he’s quick to brush it out into its cascading waves.</p><p>She feels her hair gently brushing against her clavicle, and this, more than anything else so far, makes her feel truly naked, truly seen by him. She hasn’t had her hair down in front of anyone except Finn since she was a girl.</p><p>He holds her to him, one hand resting just beneath her throat, and the strange feeling of his clothing against her nude body sends a shiver through her. Behind her, he still has on the full attire of a gentleman. He’s wearing a <em> cravat, </em> and she’s completely exposed against him.</p><p><em> Harlot, </em> her mind screams. <em> Only a harlot would want this. </em></p><p>It’s true, but she likes it. She wants more of this unfairness. More of this unbalanced power. More of her at his mercy.</p><p>“I’m going to teach you a few poses.”</p><p>“Poses?”</p><p>He pinches the skin at her hip. Not enough to hurt, but enough to startle her. </p><p>“Yes, poses. You want to be pretty for me, don’t you?”</p><p>“Yes, doctor.”</p><p>“Good girl. This,” he says, nudging her feet apart, the layers of her discarded clothing making a ring around her, “is a rest pose. Hands either at your sides like they are, or behind your back.”</p><p>He takes her fists in his hands, drawing them to the small of her back, forearms resting one against the other. It forces her breasts to jut out further, and he steps around her to see the pose from the front.</p><p>“Very pretty, princess.”</p><p>She trembles, letting her fingers curl around the opposite arm, needing something to hold onto. Otherwise, she’s afraid she’ll start trying to touch herself right here in front of him, despite knowing that she’ll never make herself feel the way that he can.</p><p>“Now raise your hands to either side of your head, elbows out.”</p><p>She complies, watching him as he stares at her without any subtlety. </p><p>He thinks she’s pretty. She makes his cock hard. He <em> wants </em> to look at her, wants to see her in this state.</p><p>“This is <em> pose one. </em> You’re going to remember it and hit this same position whenever I ask to see it. Understand.”</p><p>“Yes, doctor.”</p><p>He runs his hand over her stomach, taut with nerves. It trails up languidly towards her breasts again, like he can’t quite get enough of them.</p><p>She thinks they’re too big — unwieldy and uncomfortable in her dresses — but she knows that some men must like that. He must like the way they spill out of his hands when he cups them, how responsive they are when he runs a thumb over a pebbled nipple. She groans.</p><p>She wants his hands going down, not up.</p><p>He squats down before her.</p><p>“Keep your hands where they are and try to stay balanced.”</p><p>Then he picks up her left foot carefully, dragging the skirts under it and out of the way before setting it back down. He does the same with the other until her dresses are freed. He drapes them over the chair she’d previously been sitting in.</p><p>Seeing her clothing on that chair without her in them does something strange to her head. She’d picked those clothes out so meticulously this morning, unsure what would happen when she arrived for her appointment. She’d been sweating in the layers, nervous and uncomfortable. ‘</p><p>And now they’re on the chair without her, watching as she allows this man to ruin her.</p><p>Like so many of the other things that should bother her, it doesn’t. It only succeeds in making her more excited.</p><p>“Very good.” He stands back up before her. She’s never noticed his height before, but standing so close to him like this, she feels small. He must have at least five inches on her. “Are you ready for your next pose?”</p><p>She nods, and he presses down gently on her shoulders until she takes the hint and drops to her knees. The floor is cool on her legs, but as she stares up at him silently from the floor, she feels like she’s <em> burning. </em></p><p>This is her stake, and all he needs to do is light the match and watch as she’s consumed.</p><p>She sits with her butt on her ankles, and he kicks her knees apart until they’re spread in a wide v shape.</p><p>Opening her up to him. Making her available.</p><p>God. Jesus fucking christ, it’s an effort not to let her eyes roll back in her head.</p><p>“Hands behind your back again, darling. That’s <em> pose two. </em> How does it feel?”</p><p>
  <em> It feels slutty. It feels shameful. It feels like something I should be repenting, not enjoying. </em>
</p><p>“It feels… so good. It’s… I’m… Why am I so wet? Why do I want this so much?”</p><p>The words come out more like a plea than a question. Why does she want this? Why is she staring up at him like a child about to be punished and yet she can only feel the thrill of desire?</p><p>He reaches down to stroke her hair back from her forehead before moving to caress her temple and down her cheek.</p><p>“If I had to guess,” he starts, running a thumb over her lips, “I’d say you crave the degradation. What would, in any other situation, make you rage instead turns you on when it’s done like this. If a man called you a slut on the street, it would be wrong. But if I call you my delicious little whore here in the safety of this office, it only serves to make you want me more. You like feeling small and out of control. You like that I’m ordering you to do these things because then you don’t have to be so embarrassed about wanting them. And you like knowing that I can drive you crazy without letting it go too far. That I’ll push you exactly as much as you’re capable and no further. Because then you don’t have to think. You can just fall into it and let me handle the rest.”</p><p>She lets her eyes flutter shut, leaning into his palm on her cheek. Her nails dig into her arms behind her back, enjoying that little jolt of pain.</p><p>“You think you’ll remember pose two?”</p><p>She nods eagerly. He couldn’t wipe this feeling from her mind if he tried. She’s certain, years from now, long after he’s forgotten her and found someone else to taunt and tease, she will still be dreaming about the possibilities of pose two.</p><p>“Good. Sometimes in this pose, I’ll let you rest your hands on your thighs instead, but not right now. Pose three is the same, just with your hands behind your head again. Let me see it, good girl.”</p><p>She laces her fingers behind her head again, looking up at him with wide, earnest eyes. Some sick feedback loop in her brain knows that she needs to please him, needs to hear his praise at every opportunity.</p><p>“You look very pretty like this.” He digs his shiny black shoe into the apex of her thighs just underneath her needy <em> cunt, </em> and it’s an effort not to hump down against it, but she’s certain it must be a test. She’s supposed to hold the pose. He didn’t say she could move, so with muscles tensed against this horrible, raging desire, she stays still.</p><p>His eyes glint with a knowing sort of joy.</p><p>“Very pretty. How lucky am I to have such a needy little cunt show up to my office every time she needs pleasuring? Hm?”</p><p>She tries to slow her breathing so she won’t start moving against his foot unintentionally. It would feel so good. The thought plagues her — she <em> knows </em> exactly how good it would feel, and now he won’t let her have it.</p><p>She keeps her eyes on his. </p><p>“Is this the position you’ll let me suck your cock in?”</p><p>He clenches his jaw, and she can see that her question has momentarily taken away a tiny piece of his power. His own need is the only thing that keeps him from being completely above this whole scene.</p><p>“I thought we talked about that.”</p><p>“We did. You said we’d see, and I’d like to see.” Like a lightning bolt, a stray, unearned bit of boldness zings through her, and she smiles up at him, hands still behind her head, chest and pussy still exposed before him. “If you would teach me, I think I could be your good little cocksucker, <em> sir.” </em></p><p>He draws in a ragged breath.</p><p>“Please, doctor.”</p><p>He moves the hand that had been resting on her face so that his thumb presses against her bottom lip. When she lets her mouth drop open, he lets it slide against her tongue, and she sucks it in.</p><p>He groans, and her fingers tangle in her hair in an effort to keep them where she’s meant to.</p><p>She swirls her tongue around it, enjoying this little taste of him. He’s touched her everywhere — seen everything there is to see of her body and her <em> predilections </em> — and yet this is the most of him she’s had.</p><p>“Fine,” he acquiesces finally, pulling his thumb out of her mouth to cup her jaw, spit-wet digit against her skin. “But I can’t promise you’ll enjoy it.”</p><p>Something in her knows she will. Even if the rational part of her hates it, something broken in her head will still crave that feeling of being used. Of being good for him.</p><p>“Please,” she breathes out, eyes on the outline in his trousers. She has no idea how it’s supposed to fit, but he’ll know. He won’t let her fail.</p><p>“Hands down,” he orders, and she lets them drop to her thighs as he’d mentioned earlier. Is it heady, she wonders, to stand in front of a naked woman and have her follow your every order?</p><p>Her chest expands with every inhale as she greedily watches him undo his trousers enough to pull his hard cock out. When it’s finally freed, she nearly lets out an embarrassing little yelping sound.</p><p>It’s… <em> different </em> than Finn’s. A little longer, and a lot thicker. Would it feel good ramming itself into her cunt, or would something that size be painful? Would it be the kind of pain she lusts after, or would it pull her out of the pleasure?</p><p>“Do you need your word?”</p><p>“No, sir. Can I touch it?” She keeps her eyes on it, enraptured. Her mouth opens a bit on instinct, hungry for this feeling. This dominance over her, and the perfect helplessness it inspires.</p><p>“Yes, baby, go ahead and touch it.”</p><p>She reaches out carefully, wrapping her hand around it. It’s strange to think that it looks <em> pretty, </em> but it does. So pretty, a small dusting of freckles making the golden skin all the lovelier. She runs her hand over the skin gently, not sure exactly of what she’s doing, but it feels nice in her hand. Soft and warm. The tip is an angry sort of pink, but he’s calm as he looks down on her explorations.</p><p>“Have you done this before?”</p><p>“No, doctor.”</p><p>He runs a finger over her knuckles once before unwrapping her hand from him. He flattens her palm in front of her.</p><p>“Spit.”</p><p>The word is quiet and gentle and caring and <em> everything, </em> and yet somehow it still manages to be a command. She doesn’t even question his order, spitting into her hand like she does this every day.</p><p>He brings it back to his cock, keeping his hand over hers to show her how to stroke him properly. She watches carefully, trying to commit the exact motion to memory for next time.</p><p>Unbidden, her other hand comes up to cup his balls, and he lets a quiet <em> fuck </em> slip through his lips. She isn’t sure what compelled her — they aren’t as pretty as his cock is, but maybe that’s the appeal? A little wrong, a little dirty — just like her. She kind of wants to bury her nose there and nudge at them before letting her tongue poke out to explore.</p><p>That thought alone is probably sending her to hell.</p><p>Instead, she lets her fingers play with them while he keeps her other hand moving along his length.</p><p>She experiments with her grip, loosening and tightening to see what seems to make him the most unhinged.</p><p>Before long, he curls a hand at the nape of her neck.</p><p>“Still want to be my cocksucker?”</p><p>“Yes please.”</p><p>“Good girl.” He steps closer, standing in the gap between her spread thighs as his cock grazes her cheek. She turns her head to try to lick it, but his hand tightens. “Not until I say so.”</p><p>She faces forward again, looking up at him in anticipation as he draws his cock across her cheek and over her lips. The little bit of liquid <em> (come, </em>maybe?) paints her skin as he moves, and her tongue slips out to taste it on her lips.</p><p>“Do you want it?”</p><p>“Yes, sir.”</p><p>“What do you want? Say it, princess.”</p><p>“I want your cock in my mouth. I want you to teach me. Please.”</p><p>Her eyes stay trained on his length as it moves in front of her, still dragging across her face.</p><p>“Open your mouth.”</p><p>She does, and it’s only a moment before he lets the head slide past her lips along her tongue. He doesn’t go too deep which she’s relieved about. She’s not sure what happens when it hits the back of her throat.</p><p>“One hand now, baby. At the base,” he says, and she returns one of her hands from her thigh to his cock. “Get it nice and wet and then see what feels right for you.”</p><p>He lets her try on her own for a while, not trying to direct her movements in any specific way, though his hand stays on the back of her neck, and it feels like security. Safety.</p><p>She starts at the head, laving it with attention. She tongues the little slit at the top as her hand moves up and down the length of him. When she’s had her fill, she licks a stripe up the bottom along the vein there before trying to fit him back in her mouth.</p><p>She never pushes it too far, and he doesn’t force himself in. Her hand works the parts that her mouth can’t reach, and she can only hope that her eagerness makes up for her inexperience.</p><p>Her jaw starts to ache, but she refuses to stop, even as drool coats her chin, dripping down onto her chest. It doesn’t bother her, instead only adding to the experience somehow.</p><p>Her free hand clenches tightly on her thigh, and Dr. Blake seems to be keyed into the motion.</p><p>“Touch yourself,” he says, panting slightly. </p><p>Cock splitting her mouth open, she looks up at him in confusion. He moves his hand up into her hair, rubbing at her scalp.</p><p>“Touch your pretty little pussy for me, sweetheart. I know you won’t come from it, and it’ll give me something sweet to push me over the edge.”</p><p>Hesitantly, she sneaks her hand between her thighs. Even after so long without being touched, it is disgustingly wet. She immediately starts rubbing tight circles on her swollen clit, tortured by her own need. A groan sounds from deep within her, and as it escapes, Dr. Blake clutches her hair, pushing himself into her mouth just a little further than before. </p><p>She wonders—</p><p>Experimentally, she lets out a sound halfway between a moan and a hum, and the doctor’s hips stutter again.</p><p>With that, she renews her efforts, knowing he must be close now. She has to prove — to herself, if not to him — that she can pleasure him just as he can pleasure her.</p><p>She keeps the touches she gives herself light, not teasing so much that she loses focus. If she gives in to her trying to find her own orgasm, she’ll never manage it with him.</p><p>But it’s a struggle, and pulling back to gentle little swipes over her clit — just enough to meet his command — makes her want to cry out at the unfairness. She could be <em> so close </em> if she just had a chance…</p><p>But she doesn’t, because she’s determined to see this through first.</p><p>She pushes herself to take him deeper, enjoying the way it sometimes makes her gag. She doesn’t go farther than that — doesn’t try to see what’s on the other side of that discomfort — but she bobs her head quicker and quicker, humming as her lips tighten around him, increasing the suction. Before long, he’s moving his hips in little jolts to match her motions.</p><p>Without warning, he pulls free of her mouth, and she looks up in alarm as he strokes himself. It takes one, two, three pulls before he’s spurting out strings of <em> something </em> onto her breasts.</p><p>She watches in fascination as it coats her skin. Once the last of it has been released, she runs a curious finger through it.</p><p>“Didn’t want to make you swallow,” he says, voice heavy. </p><p>She pops her finger in her mouth, face twisting up at the taste. He laughs. </p><p>“I would’ve. If you told me to.”</p><p>“You would’ve tried, but the first time is weird, even if you’re expecting it, and I didn’t give you any warning.” He leans down, rubbing a bit of his cum into her nipple where it had landed. “Next time, I’ll make you present your tits to me, holding them up so I can cover them. Or maybe your sweet face would like some?”</p><p>Her mouth goes dry at the thought. His spend splattered across her cheeks, gluing her eyelids shut, maybe some of it landing on her tongue? Yes, yes… she definitely wants that. Wants to feel that depraved.</p><p>But instead of voicing this, she instead asks, “Tits?”</p><p>He cups her breasts, and she has her answer. <em> Tits. </em></p><p>She never wants to call them breasts again. She has tits, and one thing they’re good for is catching Dr. Blake’s cum.</p><p>“Horny, baby?” He asks, cock already tucked away. He’s somehow pristine looking again, the perfect gentleman. She must look like she was raised in the wilderness by comparison.</p><p>She whines. “Yes, sir. It’s so bad.”</p><p>“Mm. And what do you want?”</p><p>
  <em> I want you to fuck me. </em>
</p><p>But of course, she’d had to beg just to get him to let her suck his cock. It’ll take a while before he gives up this strange belief that he shouldn’t fuck her, as if anything they’re doing is moral.</p><p>Plus, he’s just come. When Finn comes, he doesn’t even ask what she needs. He just rolls over and falls asleep. So the fact that Dr. Blake is still willing to play after being pleasured is already a step forward for her.</p><p>“I— um, your fingers?”</p><p>“I have a better idea. Come on, sweetheart.” He offers her a hand, helping her to stand. It hurts more than she expects to unfold. She hadn’t been in pain on the floor, but leaving that position after so long has made her joints feel tight and uncomfortable. He compensates for this by taking some of her weight while she finds her bearings.</p><p>He guides her over to the exam chair, helping her to sit in the familiar spot.</p><p>It’s different now that she’s completely, starkly, embarrassingly <em> naked, </em> but when he straps her down, she can’t help but feel glad. If it was good before — and <em> lord </em> was it good — then it’s even better like this. Her mind flashes to that scene in her head of him tying her down to the altar in the church, and she can’t contain a whimper.</p><p>“You look so gorgeous like this,” he whispers, trailing a hand along the dried come still covering her tits once her arms are tied down.</p><p>He sits the chair up to a steeper slant, forcing her to look down at her nude body, and before she gets the chance to notice what he’s doing, there’s a new strap around her hips, being pulled tight until there’s no way she can buck up against his fingers again. She isn’t sure if she should thank him or cry.</p><p>Then he brings his stool over, sitting on it as he straps her legs in, opening them as wide as the stirrups will go. Her head drops back unable to watch as he stares so intently at her cunt. He’s always had access, but this is the first time that <em> everything, </em> every speck of her skin, each hair and flaw and freckle, is on show to him. It makes her nervous, but he just shakes his head and he pets at her inner thighs.</p><p>“Eyes on me, princess.”</p><p>Everything is heightened — everything is so much <em> worse </em> — with the cool air caressing her overheated body. She’s certain any touch at this point would send her hurtling towards an orgasm.</p><p>She watches him even though she wants nothing more than to close her eyes and hide under these feelings. There’s so much that it’s difficult to stay present, to still feel fully attached to this world.</p><p>“Please touch me, sir.”</p><p>“Of course, dear. But I think you’ve been so good that you deserve better than just my fingers.”</p><p>Then, in what fulfills weeks of fantasies, his head dips down further until his tongue meets her cunt, licking straight up her center.</p><p>There aren’t words for anything she feels after that. The world whites out, pleasure and desire and pure <em> sensation </em> overtaking anything else in her head. His tongue moves to lap at her clit, nibbling it with his teeth occasionally before gently going back to soft, quick circles. </p><p>When he sucks it into his mouth, she fights against the bindings, desperate to fly out of her seat. Her cunt clenches down on nothing, waves and waves of the most glorious torture rolling through her. </p><p>She cries out, trying to get away, but he just keeps working her through it until it’s almost painful.</p><p>“Please,” she begs, certain there must be tears on her cheeks.</p><p>“I made you wait so long, baby. Don’t you want another? I didn’t even have to work for that one.”</p><p>“Too much!”</p><p>His finger circles her hole, and he takes a second to glance up at her, lips still only a whisper away from her aching clit. “You can stop me, but if you don’t say the word, I’m going to give you another. Do you remember your word?”</p><p>“Yes,” she forces out, still trying to pull her arms free. He waits, but she doesn’t say the word, so he dives back in, making her cry out again when his finger plunges into her.</p><p>He doesn’t waste any time, sucking her clit into his mouth to worry the poor, abused little thing when his fingers — first one, then a second joins — curl against that place inside her that she still doesn’t have a name for.</p><p>“God, <em> god! </em> It’s too much! Please— it’s… it’s… I <em> can’t.” </em></p><p>She can’t articulate a single thought in full. Still, she can force out just enough to get her point across, and the one word that sits in the back of her mouth, the word she knows would make this wonderful, terrible unending torment finally cease, never crosses her lips. It doesn’t even truly enter her mind to use it. If he wants this, then so does she. It’s so much, but it’s not too much. Not really — not for her.</p><p>He keeps working at her, the feelings driving her insane. Everything is burning. Everything is ice and flames and explosions that she has no control over.</p><p>“Please,” she begs through gritted teeth. “Please.”</p><p>This time, she isn’t begging for him to stop.</p><p>“Come, darling. You’ve been such a good girl. My good little cunt. Come for me.”</p><p>And she does.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>The <em> after </em> is a haze, but she knows he brings out a blanket from somewhere.</p><p>Does he keep it in a cupboard? Is it used in his practice for normal, non-sex reasons? Did he bring it from home, expecting she might need it?</p><p>He wraps it around her, and she notices by then that she’s free of all the restraints. Her wrists hurt from all the tugging, but they’re only a bit red instead of ringed with bruises, so Finn won’t be worried once it’s faded.</p><p>Dr. Blake climbs onto the chair beside her, sitting up to pull her to his chest. Between the blanket and his warm, clothed body, she doesn’t feel quite so cold, but her mind is still sluggish. Her fingers try to grab onto his waistcoat as he brings her head to rest on her shoulder.</p><p>“How do you feel?”</p><p>She blinks, trying to think it over. How does she feel?</p><p>“Weird.”</p><p>He chuckles, and she likes the way it makes his chest rumble against her.</p><p>“That’s normal after finishing. It’s a lot to deal with. Are you still cold?”</p><p>“My, um… my toes are cold.”</p><p>She tries to scrunch them up, but her head doesn’t feel connected to her feet.</p><p>He moves against her as though he’s going to stand — maybe to get her stockings — but she hugs herself to him tighter. Her fingers feel numb, but she doesn’t let go.</p><p>“No, stay,” she begs, and he does. He bends forward, pulling her feet up until her legs are folded in front of her, and he uses one hand to warm them one at a time. His other hand stays wrapped around her.</p><p>“The weird feeling will wear off eventually, and once that happens we’ll get you put back together. But until then, let’s just stay like this.”</p><p>She nuzzles in closer.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter is 10k…… *eye twitch* </p><p>I’m not seeing heaven for this, but my one consolation is that neither are any of you. </p><p>Drop a comment so I know where we can meet up in hell</p><p>Apparently you can follow me on twitter now if you have burning questions about this story: @goddesschained</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this one is the same spice level as the others. next chapter (i think) is when it'll heat up a bit. but who knows, i'm just vibin.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That night, Finn doesn’t try to touch her at all, and she wants to feel relieved by it.</p><p>Instead, all she feels is the heavy weight of guilt on her chest.</p><p>Bellamy was right — there was a line, and she’s sure they’ve crossed it. For some reason, he’s convinced that if only they don’t have sex, they’re morally in the clear, but she knows that isn’t true.</p><p>Finn doesn’t think he’s sending his wife to a doctor so she can stripe naked and suck his cock. He doesn’t think that his wife goes there each week with fantasies of come covering her breasts — <em> tits </em> — and another man’s tongue on her sex.</p><p>It makes her stomach twist uncomfortably to think about, but she isn’t sure what other option there is. She doesn’t love Finn, and she’s certain, under all his posturing and hope for something else, that he doesn’t love her.</p><p>She’s a doll to him. A pretty little wife that he can lavish with gifts because his business is doing well. He can dress her in fine fabrics and parade her about the city and to church each Sunday. The other men can look jealously on as Mr. Collins tucks her hand in his arm as they walk through the park, and the other women can wish they were as lucky as fair Mrs. Collins, who has enough money and a pretty house and a decent man beside her.</p><p>It’s not enough. She never asked for this life. She never wanted to be married to Finn, and there’s no way out now.</p><p>And now there’s Dr. Blake. Bellamy. A man who sees her and understands her. It doesn’t have to be love, and perhaps it never could be. But he doesn’t look through her the way Finn does. He doesn’t try to see an ideal of womanhood in her that she will never live up to.</p><p>He just <em> sees. </em> He sees every messy, horrid, uncomfortable part of her mind and doesn’t shy away. He understands those parts, and he knows how to turn them into something that feels good. Something that feels freeing, that pulls the weights off her chest for just a few hours to let her breathe.</p><p>And she wants that. More than anything, she wants that in her life. But there’s no recourse for it — she’s married, and unless she intends to let the darkness out completely, Finn will likely live a very long life. There’s no way around that. No way to escape those vows, hastily and wrongfully made.</p><p>So she feels a longing, and she feels guilt. Finn rests beside her, snoring softly but not touching her, not trying to clutch her body to his, and she feels an overwhelming sadness.</p><p>This will always be her life. The hours spent in the office are a fantasy, and one day it’ll collapse around her.</p><p>But she holds onto it selfishly, because it’s the only thing she has. The only thing that will allow her to keep treading water.</p><p>She closes her eyes, trying to pretend she isn’t in this room. That the knot in her stomach isn’t twisting tighter and tighter, trying to destroy her from the inside out.</p><p>She pictures that she’s back in that office, still in his arms the way she had been only that afternoon. The way he’d held her, and talked to her, and tried to comfort her after the intensity that had come before.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “The weird feeling will wear off eventually, and once that happens we’ll get you put back together. But until then, let’s just stay like this.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She nuzzles in closer, and he runs a hand absently up and down her back. It’s soothing, the scrape of his short nails through the blanket. Part of her wants to feel it on her bare back, but she doesn’t ask. This is fine. This is more than enough. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Do you need anything? Food? Water?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She shakes her head, but that doesn’t seem to pacify him. Without moving away from her, he reaches over to a small side table she’s never given much notice to. On it sits a pitcher of water and two glasses. He pours one for her before handing it over. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Two hands,” he says gently, a request more than an order. “You’re probably still a little shaky.” </em>
</p><p><em> She holds it carefully, bringing the water to her lips. At the first sip, she realizes how incredibly </em> parched <em> she is suddenly. She doesn’t know when it hit, but her throat is bone dry, and she gulps eagerly at the water in the glass. </em></p><p>
  <em> He laughs. “Slowly, Clarke. Not all at once or you’ll make yourself sick.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She nods but barely slows her pace. When the glass is empty, she hands it back to him, a silent request for more. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He raises a brow at her, but dutifully pours another.  </em>
</p><p><em> She likes that. In this space — in this moment of existence after pleasure and before the return to reality — </em> she <em> is in charge. He listens to her wants, her needs.  </em></p><p>
  <em> She’s certain that if she actually was going to make herself sick, he would stop her, but until that happens, he will defer to her will. And that’s nice. It’s good to know that she has power and that he will listen. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She smiles, sipping on the water more slowly this time as he pours himself a glass.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Cake?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She laughs. “What?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Tea cakes,” he says, pulling a piece of cloth away to reveal a small plate of them beside the water pitcher. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You brought… tea cakes? To your office?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I don’t normally,” he says, an embarrassed smile on his face. “But sugar is good too — for after. Might make your shakes go away.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She hadn’t even noticed her fingers were still lightly trembling. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Did you… buy these?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She frequents most of the affordable bakeries between here and her own home, mainly because she is a terrible baker herself. She can do dinners, even if they’re nothing special. But tea cakes and scones and cookies and raspberry preserves and all manner of confections really aren’t her strong suit. She knows her limits, and part of the weekly budget Finn gives her is set aside for buying these goodies from more capable hands. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But she’s never seen any shop that sells lemon cakes that look exactly as these ones do. They are cut into identical squares, and she knows they would look perfect on any homemaker’s table while entertaining guests for tea. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No, I made them.” </em>
</p><p><em> “You </em> made <em> them?!”  </em></p><p>
  <em> He gives her a look, but nudges one into her hand anyway, encouraging her to eat. “Yes? I don’t see why it’s so surprising. I’m a longtime bachelor; I’ve learned how to make do.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You bake? How do you find the time? Don’t you have a housekeeper?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Mrs. Allen from down the street will sometimes help tidy the house if I’m working a lot, and some of the wives on my block will ply me with extra food if they feel sorry enough for me, but I try not to encourage it. I can cook for myself, and I make my own hours here at the practice, so there’s usually enough time to scrape something together.” </em>
</p><p><em> She nibbles at the cake, enjoying it far too much for her own sanity to handle. He makes her feel </em> that good <em> and he can bake? It doesn’t seem just for god to show this level of favoritism. </em></p><p>
  <em> “But… you’re a doctor. Couldn’t you just pay someone to do it and be free of the burden?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Sure, I guess. But I don’t mind it. I used to do all the cooking when I was a boy anyhow.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> As she eats, first one cake and then a second and third, he leans them back against the cushion of the chair. He keeps her in his arms, and she encourages him to tell her about his life. He talks about growing up with a widowed mother in a much smaller town. He’d practically raised his sister, and it was only when his mother had remarried a Mr. Marcus Kane who helped take care of them that Bellamy had the chance to pursue his education. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She finds that she likes to hear about his life. There were a lot of moments in which he might’ve never ended up in this spot; might’ve instead been a farmer or a teacher at the small one room school in his town.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But things went right, he worked hard, and now he’s a doctor. Now he's here with her, telling her what to do and then feeding her cakes afterwards. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She finishes the third cake, surreptitiously licking her thumb of all the crumbs. She notices that he was right — her hands aren’t shaking anymore, and the food and drink have helped clear away the fog. Her toes are still a little cold, and it’s easy to forget that except for his blanket, she is entirely naked against him. Still, she doesn’t want to move. She likes this spot — likes the comfort and the ease. Likes listening to him talk and actually caring about what he has to say. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> When Finn talks about the business, voice monotone and dry, she has to resist putting her head through the wall. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But here, in this in between, she finds a little bit of joy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And when he asks her more about her own life, she finds herself answering. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She talks about her parents: how loving and caring they were. How much they wanted to give her a good life, and how much they hadn’t expected for a fire to take their home, their money, and both of their lives. </em>
</p><p><em> She tries to stick to the better stories, but all the past tense makes it obvious, and finally she just admits to that last bit. She’s immune to the useless </em> I’m sorries <em> that she once constantly received. </em></p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t say that. Instead, hand playing with her hair, he says, “That must’ve been difficult.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And it was, so she nods. It was difficult. Those were the worst days of her life. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t ask about Finn, but she’s sure he can connect the dots. Parents gone, home and fortune burned away. A businessman who’d recently moved to the city and taken an interest in the only Griffin daughter, now suddenly an orphan. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She’d been twenty, so not a child, but she had no money of her own. She might’ve gone to stay with relatives, but they were all distant relations, and she was as keen to intrude on their lives as they were to invite her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So when the businessman proposed, it had seemed like a blessing. Even if she wasn’t happy. Even if she had dreaded thinking about dresses and flowers and wedding cakes. Even if the thought of him touching her made her feel vaguely ill. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It had been better than the alternative. Better than destitution. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Bellamy keeps petting her hair, and she says nothing. Instead she buries her face again into his shoulder, and he pulls her tighter into his side. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> When the time finally comes to leave the chair, he replaces each item of clothing on her reverently. </em>
</p><p><em> It’s odd, to say the least. She had hoped for something like that when he’d taken the clothing </em> off, <em> but it hadn’t occurred to her that someone might care just as much about redressing her after. It’s sweet, and she finds herself liking it far too much. </em></p><p>
  <em> By the time she leaves, the orgasms are long since past. But the warmth in her — that remains. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>The next morning, Finn walks beside her into the church, and though she’s exhausted after a night of tossing and turning, she tries to keep a smile pasted on her face as they enter their pew.</p><p>It’s almost cruel to have to come here the day after their meeting — she can’t help but remember how unchristian she’s only just been, and instead of making her feel worse, it only manages to make her feel… <em> dirty. </em></p><p>So dirty, but in a way that she kind of finds herself enjoying, provided that she can push away the guilt. For some reason, in the darkness of their bedroom, she can feel the heaviness of her lies, but in the house of god, she only feels hot. Wanted. Needy.</p><p>There is no guilt this morning. Just a roving set of eyes, wondering if he’ll come for this service today instead of attending at his home church.</p><p>Before the sermon starts, she sees him sneak into a pew on the opposite side of the aisle and a few back. He smiles at her — small and guarded so it won’t be picked apart by the church sewing circles tomorrow.</p><p>She blushes lightly before facing forward again.</p><p>Her gingers are jittery in her lap, and underneath her skirts she feels her cunt clenching down around nothing. She wishes they were alone — she wishes he could touch her again. Instead, she tries to keep her eyes on the service, knowing that at any moment he might be staring holes into the side of her head.</p><p>Self-consciously, she brushes a stray hair back behind her ear. She’s not sure why it matters — Dr. Blake has seen her without a stitch of clothing on now. He’s had her tied down nude and at his mercy. </p><p>But she still wants to impress him. Still feels like a schoolgirl with a crush.</p><p>Pastor Cadogan pontificates on the attributes of a virtuous woman. She almost has to bite back a laugh. Of course. Of course this would be today.</p><p>She blocks out as many of his words as possible. She doesn’t want guilt now. Guilt is for the night. In the daytime, she knows who she is and what she wants, and she can’t help it if that doesn’t match up with the life she’s been given.</p><p>When the service ends, the pews empty out around them. Pastor Cadogan shakes hands with many of the men, wishing them each a blessed start to the week.</p><p>Then he finds his way to them.</p><p>“Mr. Collins, Mrs. Collins. How lovely to see you.”</p><p>“Pastor Cadogan, a… <em> rousing </em> sermon as ever.” Finn, she knows, is not one to ever get too invested in church services. They do their diligence each week in attending, and he enjoys the community it provides, but he only half-follows anything said at the pulpit.</p><p>“Thank you, Mr. Collins. I did enjoy writing this one in particular.” She wonders if Finn can even name the subject of the pastor’s speech. “But I was actually hoping to speak privately with <em> Mrs. </em> Collins, if you don’t mind. Just for a few minutes.”</p><p>Finn raises an eyebrow at her in confusion, but he seems to find it more funny than anything. Rather than questioning Clarke, he’s questioning Cadogan.</p><p>After all, what could his docile, innocent wife have done to garner the <em> pastor’s </em> notice? She was probably only being kept back to talk about some donation scheme or charity drive. Yes, obviously that is why Finn’s bride is being singled out.</p><p>She knows better, and a feeling of dread unfurls in her gut. Still, she nods, telling Finn that she is fine to walk home on her own so there’s no need to wait for her. Whatever the pastor has to say, she’d rather have time away from her husband to process it.</p><p>Finn leaves with a smile, and the pastor walks her over toward the altar. At the steps that lead up to it, he kneels down, gesturing for her to join him.</p><p>“Why did you need to speak with me, sir?” She kneels on the fabric of her many layers of skirts, looking forward rather than at the man beside her. Without thinking, her hands fold into a prayer position.</p><p>“You’ve seemed distracted, Clarke. On edge even. I only wanted to make sure you were all right. Check in, now that you’ve settled into your role as a wife. How are you doing?”</p><p>“I’m—”</p><p>
  <em> Horny all the time. Desperate to be touched, or to finally touch myself in a way that is as good as I know it can be. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I picture doing the most vile, carnal things even now, here in a house of god and before my pastor. I don’t care. My mind is open to everything that my body craves, everything it cries out for. I’m ashamed, but only because I know you would cast me out if you knew. I can’t quite hate myself for needing it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m afraid that I’ve opened a box I can never close. That nothing else will ever be enough again, and no touch but his will satisfy me. I’m afraid I’ll commit every sin imaginable against my husband, and I’m more afraid of the fact that I don’t care at all to try to stop myself. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I want, I want, I want. I’m not ready to force myself back into the mold of not wanting. I don’t want to give this respite up. I don’t want to stop feeling. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But also… here, on my knees… I really wish I was with someone else. A hand in my hair, using me as he wishes. </em>
</p><p>She blushes, a tingle racing through her body. She’s wet. In <em> church. </em></p><p>“I’m fine. I’m very well.”</p><p>“And you’re happy in your marriage?”</p><p>She looks up at Jesus on his cross. She should feel worse about this, right? There should be a stronger sense of guilt for what she’s done to Finn. Or perhaps not what she’s done, but rather what she still intends to do.</p><p>“I’m not sure. It isn’t… it isn’t what I expected marriage would be like.”</p><p>“What did you expect?”</p><p>“Love, I suppose. And instead it’s… cohabitation.”</p><p>“Are you trying hard enough? To be a good and loving wife to Finn, who will then be a good and loving husband in return?”</p><p>She bristles at the question. Of course a pastor — a <em> man </em> — would truly try to blame incompatibility on her eagerness to serve as the model wife. Of course.</p><p>But because she doesn’t love him, she also doesn’t try. With a painful swallow, she only whispers, “I don’t know.”</p><p>“Well you two may always visit me for advice and good counsel. I want to make sure you are both happy in your union. Now, why don’t we pray.”</p><p>They don’t speak for several minutes, and while she’s sure that Pastor Cadogan must be faithfully reciting mental prayers, she can only close her eyes and think of the man who actually makes her happy, even in his limited capacity.</p><p>She thinks of his fingers. His tongue. His restraints. His commands.</p><p>She thinks of punishment, and how it would feel more redeeming than the church’s reconciliation. </p><p>And she thinks of his promise for more. More orders. More rules and poses and touches that he gives at his own whim. More begging. More tears, maybe. More orgasms.</p><p>And his cock. Definitely, absolutely his cock. One day, he will finally fuck her, husband or not. She closes her eyes and imagines that day viscerally as she kneels before the altar.</p><p>Eventually, Pastor Cadogan stands, extending a hand to help her up. She mutters a quick <em> amen </em> before taking it. Probably somewhere, buried under a lot of inappropriate thoughts, god or whoever would hear her entreaty for what she really needs — a better life than the one she has now. Hope for something more.</p><p>The pastor says goodbye, and when she turns around to leave, she notices one body still sitting a pew behind them, dark jacket over his broad shoulders, tapered perfectly to his frame.</p><p>He looks at her with undisguised heat in his eyes, and it makes her flush. He shouldn't look so sinfully at her in this place — it only makes the burning worse. She wonders with a rush of pleasure and worry and desire if he’d been there the entire time. If he knows what she’d been thinking about, knelt in front of the cross.</p><p>“Dr. Blake,” she squeaks out, forced to pass by him if she wants to exit.</p><p>“Mrs. Collins. Lovely day today.”</p><p>“Mm.” That’s as much as she’s willing to say on the subject, throat suddenly dry as the desert. He stands, hat in hand as he walks out beside her.</p><p>“Your prayer was… enlightening, I hope?”</p><p>As they step through the doors, he puts his hat over his curls, and she turns to look at him. To anyone else, it must seem entirely ordinary, and yet everything in this moment feels like too much. She’s warm under all these layers, and yet simultaneously every inch of her feels exposed. This feels like some humiliating dream that she would be relieved to wake up from, and yet the moment just keeps dragging on, longer and longer.</p><p>“It was, uh…” She clears her throat. “Thought-provoking, I suppose.”</p><p>He smiles. It’s not even a coy smile, or a sarcastic smile, or a knowing smile. Just a regular, sunny smile with nothing wicked hidden underneath, and yet it doesn’t matter. Their very acquaintance is tinged by wickedness.</p><p>“Good — I’m glad.”</p><p>Then he holds out his arm and offers to escort her home.</p><p>She doesn’t know how to refuse. Doesn’t know if she wants to refuse.</p><p>So she doesn’t.</p><p>And it feels really, really nice to walk home on his arm, even if they say almost nothing the whole way.</p><p> </p><p>•\•</p><p> </p><p>Clarke walks into the office on Wednesday with a rush of adrenaline. They’d changed her standing appointment date, knowing that the office closes early on Wednesdays, giving them almost the entire afternoon alone together while Finn is still at work. There will be no need to hurry off today.</p><p>He’s sitting at his desk. “Clothes off, Clarke.”</p><p>Her breath catches at the brusque, no nonsense words, but her hands follow his orders without thought, already pulling at the buttons and hooks holding her skirt on.</p><p>He doesn’t look up as she undresses, layers and layers being shed quickly. She isn’t sure if she should be grateful that he isn’t turning it into a production in which she would need to attempt to be alluring, or if she should be irritated that he isn’t even giving her the time of day. Even if she doesn’t know how to be alluring, she still wants him to think of her that way. She wants him to think of her, to lust after her, just as she does for him.</p><p>She wants him to miss her when she’s gone. She wants him to long for her touch, her responsiveness.</p><p>She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment to center herself before peeling off her chemise. Thoughts like those will drive her crazy. He may never want her as more, and that needs to be enough. There is no future here anyway — not when she’s already been forced into a mold she doesn’t fit.</p><p>Setting the soft cotton of her chemise down on the pile of clothes, she turns to him, skin bared and puckered by little goosebumps.</p><p>“Doctor?”</p><p>He looks over, eyes sweeping down her body. “Hair down, Clarke. You know this.”</p><p>She pulls the pins out quickly, letting blonde waves spill over her shoulders. He watches carefully, attention trained on her hands as they run through the hair once before falling back to her sides.</p><p>“Did you forget the few rules I gave you already? It’s only been a few days, sweetheart.”</p><p>“No, I— I was just distracted.”</p><p>“By what?”</p><p>“Um… this,” she says, gesturing around vaguely. “You.”</p><p>He nods. “You seemed pretty distracted in church too, hm? What was the reason for that?”</p><p>“The, uh… the same. I guess.”</p><p>“Really?” He asks, feigning being scandalized. “In church?”</p><p>“I can’t help it. It’s your fault, really. You brought this out.”</p><p>“My fault? I just helped you realize what was always under the surface.”</p><p>“I might’ve never known if I hadn’t come here.”</p><p>“I suppose that’s true. Do you regret it?” He seems genuinely interested in her answer, unselfconscious that the answer might be yes.</p><p>“No, sir. I don’t regret it.”</p><p>“Then it’s not <em> entirely </em> my fault. Did you think of me when you prayed with the pastor?”</p><p>“Yes. Were you thinking of me naked when you watched me pray? On my knees in front of the altar?”</p><p>He smirks this time, and it sends a shiver down her back. “Yes, but you can hardly blame me for that. It’s wonderfully, twistedly beautiful to see you like that. How could I not?”</p><p>She swallows.</p><p>“Come here,” he murmurs, gesturing towards his feet. “Second position — you remember that one at least?”</p><p>She presses her lips together, annoyed that he thinks she can’t follow simple rules. “Yes.”</p><p>He cocks an eyebrow, clearly waiting for her to do it, so she moves to kneel before him obediently. Legs spread, hands resting on her thighs, palms up.</p><p>He runs his thumb over her lips. “You like thinking about sucking my cock when you’re praying?” </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Do you think a lot of naughty thoughts when you’re meant to be focusing on the sermon?”</p><p>“Yes, doctor.”</p><p>“Tell me about them. You probably couldn’t get away with saying any of this to the good pastor after all, so consider me your confessor.”</p><p>She can feel her cheeks heating up, and he idly drags a finger down the slope of her breast before moving to toy with a hard nipple. She barely holds in a little whimper, eyes fluttering shut.</p><p>“I—”</p><p>She can’t focus. There are so many terrible thoughts she’s had since that first appointment, and yet his fingers on her have wiped each one from her mind.</p><p>“Come on, I know you must have some. All those fantasies that flash before your eyes and make you wet in church, surrounded on all sides by the god-fearing members of the congregation. So tell me them, baby. Then you can be absolved.”</p><p>The petty part of her wants to ask what qualifies him to offer absolution, but then he twists her nipple, as though he can expect her cheek. And then feeling is so distracting, so arousing that for a moment she believes him. Believes that he can offer her some kind of moral purity that she knows is out of reach.</p><p>“I think of… sex. In the church. All over the church.”</p><p>“Where?”</p><p>“In the pews. On the table at the altar, tied down at the four corners. In the rectory, or the confessional. Kneeling, laying, against the wall. Everywhere.”</p><p>“Are we alone?”</p><p>She groans, and his hand reaches down to feel the arousal pooling at her center. He touches her like he knows her body better than she does, like he owns her. </p><p>“Sometimes. Not always.”</p><p>“You like when people are watching in your fantasy?”</p><p>“No, but that just makes it better.”</p><p>“You’re always thinking about getting fucked when you’re in church?”</p><p>“Yes. Yes, always. And even when I’m at home in bed, I still see us there. Almost always—” She gasps as he starts circling her clit. “—in the church. I like… um… <em> fuck, </em> I like how wrong it is.”</p><p>“Mm, that is pretty bad, baby. So naughty, my sweet slut. You could picture it anywhere at all and you choose the church?”</p><p>“I can’t help it,” she cries. He pulls his hand back, wiping it on his pant leg.</p><p>“Tell me more. But before you do, you have a choice to make.” She looks up, staring at this man above her who sits fully dressed and entirely put together while she’s a mess at his feet. </p><p>“What choice?”</p><p>“You can tell me about your fantasies while you touch yourself. I’ll even let you come if you can get that far.” <em> Let her come? </em> The thought plagues her as much as it excites her. “Or you can hump my shoe.”</p><p>“I— what?”</p><p>“You can touch yourself however you like. Or you can rub yourself like a desperate slut against my shoe. It’s your choice.”</p><p>“Why would I—?”</p><p><em> Why would I choose the second option? </em> And yet she can’t even bring herself to pose the question.</p><p>Not because it’s so awful, but because it’s so awful in a way that almost intrigues her. </p><p>He shrugs. “You get to choose. One isn’t really any worse than what you’re already doing — sure it’s a little embarrassing maybe, but not when you’re already knelt before me completely naked. Touching yourself is barely a leap from there.”</p><p>He leans down, bringing his face closer to hers. “And you can choose that. You’d almost be guaranteed an orgasm that way. Or you could choose to debase yourself by trying to get off on my shoe. It’s less dexterous, and there’s no guarantee that it’ll get you close.” He squints at her, assessing. “But it would feel so much more degrading, and I wonder if that would be enough reason for you to try.”</p><p>“It… I…”</p><p>“It’s your choice, Clarke. You can pick whichever you’re comfortable with.”</p><p>“Won’t you <em> tell me </em> what to do?” She asks, a touch whiney. She doesn’t want to have to make this choice; she just wants to follow orders.</p><p>“I’m telling you to do one or the other. Making the decision between them is your job.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because I want to know which you’ll pick. Don’t choose what you think I want. Just choose whichever you’d prefer.”</p><p>Her head is spinning. She tries to make sense of the question, but it doesn’t register correctly in her brain.</p><p>Touch herself — which is, all things considered, not that bad — or <em> rub herself against his foot in an effort to bring herself to orgasm. </em></p><p>There’s an obvious right answer. An obvious, obvious, <em> obvious </em> answer, so why is she still sitting here frozen?</p><p>Her chest tightens with a strange momentary panic.</p><p>“Will you—?”</p><p>He traces over her cheekbone, soothing her. </p><p>“Do you remember your word?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“What is it? Just so I’m sure you know it.”</p><p>“Pineapple.”</p><p>“Do you need to use it?”</p><p>She thinks for a moment before shaking her head. “Not yet.”</p><p>“Let me know if that changes. Now will I what?”</p><p>“Will you, um… Is one choice… wrong?”</p><p>“No, baby. I won’t judge you no matter what you choose.”</p><p>How can he promise not to judge her if one is so obviously the correct answer? The idea of choosing almost makes her want to cry, but she also feels…</p><p>Freer, maybe. If this is the hardest choice in her world, and she’s sure in this moment that it must be, then everything else must be okay. Nothing exists outside of this, and here she can be whatever she needs to be.</p><p>“Have you chosen?”</p><p>She squeezes her eyes shut, ashamed. But she nods her head.</p><p>Her hands don’t move from where they sit on her thighs, and he takes mercy on her.</p><p>“You want my foot?”</p><p>She nods again, refusing to look at him, and it only takes a moment before she feels it slide beneath her cunt. Without looking down, she knows it’s so, so wet, and the feeling makes her shudder.</p><p>She jerks her hips forward without thinking, already liking the way it feels to rub against it. If she thinks of it that way — as an <em> it, </em> an unnamed object rather than his shoe — then it feels almost bearable to continue.</p><p>“Do I have to hold this position?” She asks quietly.</p><p>“No, sweetheart.”</p><p>She lets out a relieved breath, and quickly brings her hands up to his thigh, just above his knee, so she can hold onto it and bury her face there. He reaches down to place a huge hand on the back of her head, running through her hair as she tries not to think of the needy way that her hips are still moving. She lets out a little moan.</p><p>“Is that nice? Does it feel good?”</p><p>“Yes,” she whispers, still refusing to look at him.</p><p>“Even though it’s embarrassing? Or because it’s embarrassing?”</p><p>“The second one.”</p><p>“Good, I’m glad it feels nice. Keep rubbing and see if you can get yourself off like that, baby. You deserve it.”</p><p>She lets out a sigh and tries to enjoy the feeling of his hand massaging his scalp. The feeling of his rough trousers against her breasts. The feeling of his <em> shoe </em> against her cunt.</p><p>Sometimes he’ll move his foot, helping her grind against it, and that just makes the flame burn brighter within her.</p><p>“Will you tell me more about your fantasies, princess?”</p><p>She nods into his leg before stumbling through half-formed thoughts about being tied down or strung up, being spanked and being commanded, being humiliated or adored. He listens carefully, never interrupting. His touches are gentle, and she rubs furiously the more she gets drawn into these ideas. She tells him about her need to be fucked by him, the way she can’t stop thinking about it every time she touches herself.</p><p>“Have you made yourself come yet? At home, thinking of me?”</p><p>“No,” she cries, thinking of her string of disappointments. “I want to. So badly. I’m desperate.”</p><p>“I know, sweet girl. You’re so desperate, aren’t you.” His toe nudges at her again, and she moans. “Think you can come like this, baby?”</p><p>“Yes. Yes, yes, <em> please.” </em></p><p>She wasn’t really asking permission — it was more a plea with the universe — but he answers her anyway. “Of course, princess. Go ahead.”</p><p>And something about that permission makes it so much easier to bite down on her lip and fall apart.</p><p>“Fuck, <em> fuck.” </em> She flutters around nothing, tense with the pleasure rushing through her. He holds the base of her neck in a tight grip, keeping her grounded to the earth.</p><p>“Good girl,” he whispers. Then, with an imperiousness that would be irritating from anyone but him, he says, “You can touch yourself as much as you want at home, but you’re not allowed to come.”</p><p>She pulls back in indignation, forgetting entirely to be ashamed for her lewd display.</p><p>“And why not?”</p><p>“Besides the fact that you can’t?” He smiles, knowing that it annoys her.</p><p>“Maybe I’ll manage it next time, and now I’m not allowed to actually <em> have it </em> if I get there!”</p><p>He shrugs, unbothered. “I suppose you can do whatever you want, but as the good girl I know you are, you’d have to admit to me that you broke my rule and accept a punishment.”</p><p>“Punishment?”</p><p>“Mhm,” he says, grinning down at her. “A spanking, probably, although technically there are lots of creative things I could do to reprimand you without leaving anything more lasting than a bit of pink skin behind. So I guess it just depends on whether you’re willing to face the consequences of disobedience.”</p><p>“Will you be mad?” She asks. She’s not worried really, just curious.</p><p>“Not if you take your punishment. That’s how it works. You break a rule, I punish you, and then all is forgiven.”</p><p>“Really?” It sounds nice — taking a punishment and then being free of guilt. Painful maybe. Or uncomfortable at least. But quick, and with a promise of redemption at the end. No lingering feelings of regret or remorse.</p><p>“Of course. And if you want to test me, then be my guest. I am more than happy to remind you why you’re supposed to be following my orders in the first place.”</p><p>The predatory look in his eyes — the joy that she imagines him feeling at the idea of spanking her — is enough to have her reconsidering a rebellious streak.</p><p>“You’ll do confession at the start of every session, just like this. You’ll tell me all of your dirty thoughts for the week and if any rules were broken. And if there are punishments to dole out, we’ll deal with them then. Understood?”</p><p>She wonders if that means he’ll make her get off on his shoe every time, but she doesn’t ask. “Okay. Are there any punishments for this week?”</p><p>He hums. “Your church thoughts were very slutty, but I’m inclined to encourage that. I like the thought of you dripping when everyone else is either trying to humble themselves or judge those around them. It makes you blush so prettily when you know it’s wrong.”</p><p>“So… no?”</p><p>He looks down at her with a hint of harshness behind his gaze. “Five spanks to each breast, if only because you’re clearly asking for it.”</p><p>Was she asking for it? It wasn’t consciously done, and yet clearly she’d poked at the subject until he’d acquiesced. </p><p>“Hands under your tits. Hold them up for me.”</p><p>There’s something vulgar about how good it feels to present her breasts for him, and she lets herself enjoy it. With each swat he delivers, one to one side and then a mirror to match on the other, she keeps her eyes on his face. She flinches sometimes from the pain, but she can’t look away from the concentration carved into his features.</p><p>He’s good at this. He’s good at reading her, at understanding her, and doing what she needs, even if it isn’t what she’s capable of asking for.</p><p>He could be good for her in a different world. Could’ve been good in more ways than just this.</p><p>The last smack stings, and she winces in pain. But then she remembers the promise too — the one that, after her punishment has been given, she’s released from the guilt of her wrongdoings.</p><p>She knows it doesn’t really count, at least not in the way she would like it to. It frees her from <em> him </em> being upset, and he hadn’t been to begin with. It doesn’t save her from whatever hell she might go to for thinking such despicable things in church in the first place. But still, it feels like redemption, and she basks in it.</p><p>“Very good,” he says, rubbing his hand over the red patches on her tits. “How did it feel?”</p><p>“It hurt.” Stating the obvious. </p><p>“But?”</p><p>“But I liked it.”</p><p>He smiles patronizingly. “Of course you did, baby. You’re so good at being my little cunt, hm?” His fingers slide down to twist her nipples.</p><p>And even though she’s just come, she’s suddenly aching for it again.</p><p>“Do you know how confession ends?”</p><p>“Um… contrition? Prayer?”</p><p>“Very good. Only I’m not going to make you pray here in front of me, although wouldn’t that be so sweetly sadistic? No, I think we’re going to end our confession with devotions.”</p><p>“Devotions?”</p><p>His hands move to the front of his trousers, and she watches eagerly, mouth already watering at the thought. </p><p>“Mm,” he says, a knowing smile on his face. “Come worship, sweet girl.”</p><p>Then he curls his fingers into her hair, gripping so tightly that she wants to melt into him, and leads her mouth to his cock.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>people who comment on porn are heroes and i will appreciate the sacrifice you are making for me immensely</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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